When I first started writing,
it was for the sheer joy and mystery of it all. It was just downright amazing to me that I could think up anything I wanted and then make it, well, make it real just by writing it down. I got hooked.
Later, when I went to college, I found out you could major in English and get a degree, just for writing. And the good news didn't stop there. It turns out, people will pay you for this too. Don't ever tell me life's not fair. I worked my way through school as a reporter and skated my way through class after literature class on the strength of coffee and cigarette fueled all-nighters.
I was writing then out of necessity. Don't think I didn't still love it, but my relationship with words was changing. I focused less on the joy and more on the deadlines; I was wrapped up in the why rather than the writing.
Now I try to write to answer the questions I ask myself as I kick off the sheets on a sultry night in late July. I'm rediscovering the joy of writing; rekindling my love affair with words. And in writing for self-discovery I've once again awakened the mystery and marvel of exploring the uncharted landscape that language unfolds.
So let's just start with a cliche and get it over with:
I guess I always knew I wanted to play guitar and write songs. I was trying to make music when I was in diapers; I'd bang on pots, pans, my momma's lampshades — anything that made sound was fair game.
I used to not pay attention to my school work so I could write songs. Even before I played an instrument I was writing down lyrics and singing melodies as they popped into my head. Somewhere in the stacks of my childhood is my first album, recorded in glorious one track mono on my Radio Shack cassette player. Those were the days.
Now I use a lot complicated electronic toys and a little help from my friends to put together the songs you're about to hear.
