We never feel so high as when we wake up in the morning and listen to the song we wrote the day before and realize it’s as good as we thought it was. And we’re never so bummed as when we wake up and realize it isn’t. But we write another. We know who we are. We are each other.
One of the participants at SongStudio asked what it would take for her to get in a room with me. I explained that we all have to work with writers of our own level and one day, something will happen out of the blue…an A&R might give her a favorable recommendation or a hit writer might love a song she wrote and voila, she’ll get her session with a more experienced songsmith. And she'll be Writing Up!
As I get older I need new endeavors. I’m not good at getting up every day and doing the same thing over and over. I want to learn how to do what I have no clue about. I want to get stuck. I want to get unstuck. I want to feel like I’m moving, progressing and growing.
Words are precious. Every "LIKE" is a substitute for what we really mean. Don’t tell me THAT she was like…tell me WHAT she was like. I want to know. Was she blue? Was she beige? Did you hurt her feelings? Did he say nothing at all? Write me a song. Paint me a picture.
I’ve developed a latent crush on the English language—obsessed with learning new words (and I’m delighted when I actually remember their meaning the following week)! I'm having a love affair with thesaurus.com and I feel high when I discover a perfect adjective.
Serial Songwriters (The Bruce Springseens as well as the Suzie Smiths) have creative common threads. They just manifest themselves slightly differently in different souls. I like reading about these threads because I recognize myself as part of a larger Tribe. It’s like a link to a religion I belong to. I’m confirmed.
When we're told we have the Single our self esteem rises over night. Obviously, we tell ourselves, it was just a matter of time and all the recent rejection was absolutely leading up to this very moment. We’re sure of it. (Even though the week prior, we were wishing we had chosen another profession. Something easier. Olympic figure skating perhaps.)
We songwriters are just as noteworthy as the pop-stars who record our material. We need each other. We are partners. We'd be nowhere without someone to deliver our message. And that someone, if they're not a contributor themselves, would be nowhere without us. We are the Unsung hero. The Unfamous. The Unfamiliar. The Unknown. Just because we’re behind the curtain doesn't mean we should have a lesser title.
I’m sure all mothers will agree (no matter how we voted), we don’t ever want our daughters to buy into the idea that their gender will be an obstacle. Even if there’s some truth to it, believing in ourselves can over-power reality.
In my mind, the collision of these 4 particular human beings is to music, what the big bang theory was to the configuration of the Universe. Unlikely. And although there are bands and artists I can't imagine having grown up without—The Eagles, Pretenders, Stevie (both of them), Elton, (omg, Elton!), even, forgive me, Prince...in the end, for me, nothing will ever compare.
Sleeps With Fists. I do. In the film Dances With Wolves, the Lakota Indians gave the name “Stands With Fists” to a woman who was mourning the loss of her husband and I guess she stood around a lot with fists at her side. Me? I sleep with mine under my pillow.
We don’t need material gifts, Santa….just some shift in the Universe that gives musicians faith in the idea that we, and the young people who will come after us, will be able to sustain ourselves and keep giving the world what they can not live without: music.
I took an Abmien last night at 9:30. Slept like a baby. Woke up despondent and Stepford. Sort of like when my otherwise healthy father had an aortic aneurysm and the doctor told me he would probably not live and I kept thinking I’d get a call saying it all turned around overnight and he’d be fine. It didn’t. He wasn’t. He died.
Last year when I returned home to an empty nest, it was a very busy time for me. I was furiously crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s of Confessions of a Serial Songwriter. There was no time to think about 'Now What?'