Long and Winding

Ah, discipline, it's just not me. I am haphazard incarnate. Whaddayagonnado? I try to blog frequently, but somehow...

So what's new? Well, the Telecaster has taken my songwriting in directions I never imagined it would. I'm very excited about it, but not sure how to attack what needs to happen next. I have a few ideas... but nothing concrete. I know that I need Eric and Dan absolutely, but I think I may also need Tommy and Merrill and even once in a while Daddy-o. My perspective is also shifting a bit - not so focused on the first-person narrative song now, sort of starting to shift to more story-telling, third-person stuff, which I really like.

And I've discovered that I like a little growl in my tone. I got a Vox amp which does the sugar-coated-road-grit sound perfectly, and I'm suddenly completely enchanted with dirt. I realize that this is part of me that's been dormant a long time. Darker impulses are finding their way into my voice, too, and I'm more comfortable with the imperfections in my character. I'm the nicest bitch you'll ever meet. Let me sing you a song...

An Experiment in Flash Fiction

My Blind Date with an Alien

“I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow, just started to apologize.

I waved his apology away. “No, no, I keed, I keed...”

He looked even more confused. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just a curious person.”

I smiled. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

He looked shocked, and his giant violet-blue eyes got even bigger. “What? Oh, I’m so sorry! How did it happen?” He almost reached for my hand.

I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my shoulder. “That’s just an old expression.”

He tilted his head and, if possible, looked yet more confused. “Old expression?”

Once again I found myself waving the subject away. “No matter. So, Curious George, where did you grow up?”

He smiled. “My name is Stephan, not George.”

“Sorry, you remind me of somebody called George.” I took a sip of my Chablis and restated my question. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Minnesota.”

I nodded encouragingly, but he didn’t pick up on my cue. “Oh, Minnesota. So you came to Iowa seeking relief from the cold winters, then?”

He shrugged. “No, the winters here aren’t much less cold than in Minnesota. I came here because I got a job at the University.”

I slapped the table top lightly. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re a hot shot astrophysicist, right?”

“No.” If it was possible for someone to look sick with confusion, it was my date. “I’m a... warm-blooded anthropologist.”

I had to laugh. “Even better! Studying us Earthlings, reporting back to the Mother Ship?”

His confusion turned to panic. “What are you talking about? You haven’t made one bit of sense this entire evening!”

“Do you live under a rock or something?”

He was visibly trembling. “No, I live in a nice house on Brown Street. Look, I’m sorry, Melissa, but I thought we had a connection, and now I just think you’re a terrible person, and I am going to pay the check and leave.”

I couldn’t resist. “Screw you guys, I’m going home.”

He rose in a lather, looked at me with real fury, and stalked out as I literally fell out of my chair sideways laughing. “B’dee b’dee b’dee, that’s all folks!”

Lillian's Last Dance

Lillian drained the last of her whiskey and sat back in the unfamiliar chair, waiting for the soft knock she knew was about to come. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to be nervous. “People do this all the time,” she whispered to herself. She had dressed in a very flattering pale blue dress of soft and stretchy fabric that flowed around her body like a soft breeze. Her nearly white hair was styled simply and softly, framing her still lovely face with it’s high cheekbones and dazzlingly blue eyes.
The soft knock came in the next moment, and she startled. Quickly composing herself she opened the door. A young and very handsome man stood on the other side.
“Lillian?” His voice was as dark and silky as his very expensive looking suit, with such a subtle hint of an accent that she could not recognize it.
“Yes, I’m Lillian.” Her voice was steady, she was impressed.
“I’m Michael. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”
Lillian stood aside to let him in. “Please, come in. Can I offer you... well, I have a little whiskey and I can probably get you some water.”
He immediately soothed. “No, no, Lillian, I’m just fine. Thank you for offering.” He set a case on the desk top. “You seem a little nervous. Why don’t we sit down and chat a little bit before we begin.”
She seemed both relieved and anxious. “Whatever you think is best.”
He held out a strong, golden brown hand and led her to the little sofa. “No, I don’t know best. You know best. But I understand being a little nervous.”
“Well, I have never done this before.” She laughed at the absurdity of the statement.
Michael smiled and laughed with her. “I don’t get very many repeat customers.”
Suddenly much more at ease, she leaned back on the couch and looked at Michael. “Well, maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”
He laughed again, this time much less reserved. “Well, if I was a few years younger...”
“Nonsense. Nice suit, by the way. I used to work in alterations, way back in the day. I know good fabric when I see it.” She reached out tentatively to touch the sleeve.
“Some people might see it as a wicked indulgence, but,” he got conspiratorially quiet, “I love good fabrics. My mother was a seamstress in Italy, where I was born.”
“Oh, working in fashion?” She smiled as he nodded. “I wanted to be a designer, and I think I had some lovely ideas. But that’s a rough business to get into.”
He patted the hand that still rested on his sleeve. “Mama worked for several of the big designers in Milan. She worked from home, so she could raise her family.”
“Really? That’s almost unheard of in the fashion industry.”
“Because she was so fast, and so good they trusted her, and so she became personal friends with many of the designers.” He laughed. “I used to play with the scraps of fabric, making hats and capes and whatever my imagination wanted.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a wonderful childhood.” She drifted off a moment, imagining the young child with a flowing silk cape, running over cobblestone streets with a toy sword.
“It was. But that’s enough about me. Is this dress one of yours?”
She laughed. “Don’t you know Donna Karan when you see her? You flatter me!”
“It’s the perfect color for your eyes. Tell me, did you ever make any of your designs?”
She nodded. “A few. And I even sold some of them, back in the ‘50s, when a woman would wear a real gown on a date, you know, dinner and dancing.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, those were such beautiful nights. Do you like to dance?”
“Oh, I used to love dancing. I met my husband on a dance floor, actually.” She laughed. “I was out with another fella, but he wasn’t a very good dancer, and I saw Robert across the room dancing with some dazzling red-headed girl, and he was so graceful, so confident. I guess he must have known I was wishing I could dance with him, because he came over and asked me, and we danced for the next forty-five years.”
“And the red-head?”
“Became my dear sister-in-law.” She laughed. “I wouldn’t have wanted her as competition! She was gorgeous!”
“What about the poor fella you didn’t like dancing with?”
“He left with a girl who was... less interested in dancing.” She shook her head. “We were all so shocked! It was in some ways such an innocent time.”
He smiled. “What a wonderful story. I dream of finding a woman I can... dance with like that.” He gestured to the open part of the room. “Would you dance with me now?”
Lillian stopped herself before mentioning the lack of music. “Well, if you are gonna lead, I’m gonna follow!”
Michael got up off the sofa and gently drew her to her feet. His rich speaking voice translated to a wonderful singing voice as well. He sang a lovely song in Italian, one strong, confident hand around her slim waist and the other holding her hand like a child’s. He looked into her eyes as he sang, and she smiled like she was young again.
When he finished the song, he kissed her cheek, then drew back and bowed. “Thank you, my lady, for the dance.”
She returned his bow with a graceful curtsey. When she straightened, she said, “I think I’m ready now.”
He took both of her hands in his. “Are you completely sure, Lillian, that you want to do this? There is no going back.”
Her eyes closed for a moment and she looked up, over his shoulder and back to his face. “It isn’t gonna get any better than this. In fact, it hasn’t even been close to this good for a long time, so yeah. I’m sure.”
He nodded, and led her to the bed, and helped her sit on the edge. “Do you think you’ll want a blanket?”
She considered. “Yes, I think I would.”
He pulled one out of the chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed and laid it carefully beside her. Then he turned his attention to his case, and drew from it a bottle of liquid, kept cold with an ice pack.
“You’ve already signed all our forms, and we have the statement from your doctor, so we can just proceed without interruption.” He broke the seal and opened the bottle. Still sensing a bit of merriment in her eyes, he waved it under his nose and sniffed. “Ah, yes, a very good year.”
She laughed. “A good year to toast many good years.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away with her hand. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
He put the bottle down and sat next to her on the bed, taking her hands again. “I think you lived a wonderful life. There is no shame in a few tears when you are saying goodbye to that.”
She smiled through a few more tears. “Absolutely. I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just... well... it’s a life. That’s a precious thing.”
He was quiet for a moment. “It is a precious thing. Lillian, do you want to call your son?”
“No.” She was decisive without rancor. “No, he wouldn’t understand. He thinks I should come and live with him so he can take care of me. I can’t imagine inflicting anything more horrid on him. No. I’ve sent him a letter. He’ll know tomorrow.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m ready when you are, Lillian.”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, and grinned. “Bring it.”
He went back to the desk. “Here it is.” He poured the slightly pink liquid into a plastic cup. “Sorry, we don’t have budget for wine glasses.”
Lillian laughed. “Well, it hardly matters at this point, does it?” She accepted the cup and drank the liquid down. “Damn, that stuff’s got quite a kick to it.”
He winked. “We don’t mess around.” He took the empty cup from her steady hand, and helped settle her back on the bed, then placed the cup and empty bottle in the trash and returned to the bed to cover Lillian with the blanket.
“Would you like some company until you fall asleep, or would you like to be alone?”
“Company would be lovely.”
Michael drew a chair up beside the bed and settled back.
“Would you like to talk?”
She sighed. “You know, if I’m not imposing, I would love to hear you sing to me. You have such a lovely soothing voice.”
“It would be my pleasure, and my honor.” She heard him shift in the chair slightly. “Anything in particular you want to hear?”
She sighed drowsily. “Do you know any of those old love songs like we used to slow dance to?”
“Ah, I know just the thing.” He sat up straight and sang to her in a soft, low voice as she drifted to sleep for the last time.

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see ‘em bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue, clouds of white
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of the people going by
I see friends shaking hands, sayin’ how do you do
They’re really sayin’ I love you

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world*

*Song written by Bob Thiele (as George Douglas) and George David Weiss.

Beating Oneself Up

Still working with The I Ching for Writers... and lately the exercises have been forcing me to dig deep and really beat myself up a bit, which apparently I have needed. OLD stuff, shit I've been carrying around for who knows how long and who cares why has been dredged to the surface, and I've had to look at it, identify it, decide whether it has worth or validity, and then either clean it up and file it, or compost it. It's exhausting, but rewarding in a weird way. You get all those, "Oh! That explains a lot!" moments, which are often opportunities for hilarity. And when you write all of this down, you end up with a few strings of words here and there that are just... remarkable, and great fodder, judiciously edited, for future writings.

As always, stay tuned for further developments...

Looking inside

Inner truth is tricky stuff
It’s like trying to read your own future
In leaves, or cards
You interpret things the way you want
But at the risk of telling myself
What I want to hear
I’ll take a shot at it
And try to be honest about the truth
Okay, start with what we know:
I’m an introvert
I love being left to my own devices
Alone to think my own thoughts
Never having to censor myself or
Watch what I say so as not to
Light fires I don’t want to fight
Maybe we all do this
I’m creative, too, and never happier
Than when I am making something
From raw materials, or nothing at all
Out of my head, out of my mind
Yet my sanest moments are purely creative
The word Wicca, apparently, comes from
Roots that mean to bend or move
That’s a little factoid that has lodged itself
In my mind because that’s what
I imagine that I do when I create
Bend the Universe to my will
Make something that nobody has
Ever had before and that changes
Something, somewhere, somehow

Tool box stuff

A member of the writers group, Cindy, donated a couple copies of The I Ching for Writers by Sarah Jane Sloane, which is very cool. It's a good tool to have around for inspiration, but also just to improve your chops. It's good exercise to write something other than what you feel driven to write. Write from a purely intellectual place, and then get excited about that. Write from a voice you've never imagined using, like an old man or a child. Building chops. It's been really fun and interesting, and taking the exercises seriously will ultimately make me a better writer. That's a good thing.

WTF is up with Valentine's Day?

The traffic around the mall yesterday was almost as bad as Christmas. So, the annual orgy of giving and spending and running up the credit cards wasn't enough for people? If ever there was a holiday for staying home and putting your money where your mouth is (hmm, THAT can be taken more than a few ways), it's this one. I guess I must have missed a memo somewhere.

And this morning, I'm solitary on the couch with a box of tissues, some tea and a whole array of cold remedies before me. Maybe I'm not jaded, maybe it's just snot.

Back to the business of getting through the day

It's just been busy busy busy here, nothing particularly creative going on. Well, there's always something creative going on, but I do have to keep some things to myself and let them percolate.

I've had some time to spend with my sister lately, and that's been remarkable. Our brains really are tuned to the same station a lot of the time. In fact, it's scary how often we discover that we're thinking each other's thoughts. Scary and great. DNA is funny stuff, you know?

More to come about that... eventually... when I'm damn good and ready...

Distortiony goodness

And now we return to a subject that I was quite obsessed about back in 2009; learning to play the electric guitar. One of the songs that I was working on Saturday needs distortion, bass, drums, B3 and a really dirty slide. The distortion on my practice amp is really unappealing to my ears, really harsh and brittle. I want a creamier, more musical distortion, so Dean Farley suggested an Ibanez Tubescreamer distortion pedal (he says they're friendly, but I think he meant "idiot-proof," though he's too nice to say it). I picked one up cheap, and plugged it in... and... well... see, I'm just so not used to THAT response when I play guitar and I think it messes with my attack or something. It sounds like ass. My dad once told me that it didn't matter what you played if you played with confidence, and hopefully that's all I'm lacking at this point.

Otherwise, just keepin' on keepin' on. Writers group meets again Wednesday at 6 - can't wait!

A quiet and guitary morning

Actually sat down and played some guitar this morning, wonder of wonders. I have about... 5 sets of lyrics written that need music, and I think I cracked three of them. It will be interesting to see what happens with these wintery songs.

It is bloody cold this morning, my gods... supposed to be even colder tomorrow. Iowa really sucks sometimes. It's so cold that it's dangerous to expose your skin for even a couple minutes. I guess I've inherited that sort of sick Iowa pride:

Hey, Winter, is that all you got? Come on! Bring it!

Hey, look what I lived through!

Yeah. We can be sooooooooo stupid. Whatever, it feels good to sit on the couch where it's... um... kinda warm though not exactly toasty, and make stuff up.

Back to it

Let's just say I've given myself some time to reflect upon the hard work I did a few weeks ago, assessing what I love and what I'm good at, listing the things I really don't want to do ever again (add to that original list scraping ice off my windshield, though that's probably not going away for a while). We won't say that I got too distracted by life, the universe and everything to actually bother to continue on this path. Diplomacy to self; it's an art.

There are some things I want to try, and I have no clue about whether they'll work. Whatever. I am ready to throw some things out there and see what sticks. I hesitate to reveal my hand at this point, simply because the couple of things I am most focused on are not completely ready yet, though now that I am focused, it won't take long.

Alright, rolling up my sleeves, rubbing my hands together rapidly, taking a deep breath...

Resolutionless

I'm not a resolutions fan. I resolved not to make any resolutions. I guess I'm really not a December 31-January 1 fan, honestly.

I like to celebrate the winter Solstice. It makes a lot of sense. It's an astrological event that happens every year; it's rich in mythology, and is a handy "odometer" marker for the planet on it's trip around the sun. My family celebrates the Longest Night, the night before the Sun is born. We put up a little tree and put lights and ornaments on it; buy little bits of several really, really decadent and stinky cheeses and some of the expensive crackers from Italy; we cut up some fruit and veggies, lay out some chocolate and whatever sweet junk food we have inherited; I make up a batch of wassail; we light a bunch of candles, turn off all the lights and tell one of the stories of the rebirth of the Sun. Then we give each other presents, and wish each other a safe journey through the Longest Night. I'd like to tell you that I stay up all night to greet the newborn Sun when it rises, but I don't (me and sleep deprivation are a bad combination). But somebody usually gets up and watches the sunrise, and somebody else lights another candle at the moment of the Solstice, and everybody takes a pause to reflect in their own way.

And then we're done, and we move forward from that point, and it's all very peaceful and nice and very natural. You can almost hear the Celestial Odometer click over. So all y'all can go ahead on out and wait for a man-made shiny ball to drop down a cheesy pole. I'm way ahead of ya, already well into the new year.

So much for blogging every day, huh? I got real busy, and it got away from me. Not much better today -I can type a few words and then the phone rings or somebody needs something. Argh.

So from the sublime musings last week we did a header back into the real world... work work work. Which is good, because work = money, though it's rarely enough. Ah, grind stone is calling once again. See what I mean? Argh!

A newly planted garden

Last night I attended the inaugural meeting of the Paul Engle Center Writer's Group, a group of individuals that come together for inspiration, creative support and incentive to write more. People who love to write, songwriters, poets, people who write reviews and columns, memoir writers, graphic novelists, and even a photojournalist, got together and agreed to be a support team for each other. It is a rather wonderful idea, and I am excited to be part of it.

One of the members, Dean Rathje, talked about Paul Engle, Grant Wood, Marvin Cone and Jay Sigmund and the relationship they had with each other, how they all inspired and influenced each other, even though two were writers and two were painters. There used to be a wonderful Community of Artists, centered in this very place. We all took a breath and realized that we could be that for each other.

So now, words are flying through my mind like wild notes; ideas vie for my attention like children; I am ravenous for my work like it's a long separated lover. I don't know what will come of this association, but I am thirsty for this creative brew!

A whack on the top of the haid

While loading my laptop and lunch into my car yesterday, the wind somehow caught the rear door of my station wagon and whacked it down on my head - the sharp cornery part of the latch housing dug into the top of my skull. It was so cold outside that the tears froze on my face in the bitter, bitter wind.

Commence tiny violin solo.

Interestingly, it set off a frenzy of creativity. I spent a lot of time yesterday thinking about the awful holiday music we're force fed at this time of the year, and started hatching a bit of a scheme to do something to fight the pablum. So the question to me is, WHY do most people write sappy, stupid, awful holiday music? Why does it have to have saccharine melody and ridiculously cheery harmony, and what is UP with the jinglie bells? Bad and wrong people.

Let's dig into some holiday history, shall we? Celebration of the winter solstice has been going on since some observant early early early humans noticed that the sun moves in the sky every day. One morning you wake up and step out of the cave and the sun is over there, and a few days later you wake up and it's over there. Well, surely, the Sun is a God, and hey! God! Where are you going? Why's it so cold? Build fires to get His attention! Do something! Oh look! It's working! He stopped! Hey! Let's party!

That's the impulse that sends a little shiver down my spine at the first sight of snowflakes, the first whiff of evergreen, the first touch of bitter wind that reaches down from the North to freeze heart and soul. But I can think of very, very few holiday songs that celebrate that - truly embrace that older, wilder side of the season. The life-or-death drive to survive it, to stay warm enough and have enough food laid by just to keep waking up every day until winter loses it's grip and things start to thaw. That's some powerful and (seemingly) completely untapped mojo that our modern world could use about now.

We have been feeling that a bit here in the Midwest lately. Damn it's cold. Ten below overnight with raging, howling winds that take your breath right away. During the long nights we feed the fire and pile on the blankets. Going out is exhausting. Staying in is little better. We tread lightly over the ice that now covers much of our daily Universe, braced against the wind that threatens to knock us right off our feet.

So why don't we embrace the fact that we DO it every year? Most of us don't tell the tale we live to tell. Especially not in song. I think maybe it's time to change that.

What don't I love?

I don't like to hate things... I don't like to be a whiner or complain endlessly about stuff, so hopefully I can do a brief, logical inventory of stuff I am not good at, don't like to do and never want to do again.

sales or telemarketing
customer service
answering any sort of "hotline"
reporting numbers and data
tracking things like the effectiveness of marketing plans or ad campaigns
attending sales meetings
looking for needles in haystacks

I know that I am an impatient person, cannot spend hours and hours looking through records or files or compiling data or whatever; my attention starts to wander quickly, I get surly and actually start to experience light-headedness, nausea, headache or severe hunger. It can utterly blow the rest of a day. Well-meaning folks have sometimes complained (ahem) about this particular personality trait, and all I can say is, I have never had any control over it. It's not that I want to "get my way," or that something has to be entirely about me and what I like... I just am not the kind of person who can DO that. Even with things I do like. Dyslexics often say they feel physically ill when confronted with a page of music notation, or even in severe cases just a page full of words, so I can't imagine that my "affliction" is an indication of a major character flaw; it's just an honest brain quirk.

Another quirk (let's be generous) is that if I have a job, it has to be meaningful to somebody or I become increasingly despondent, unengaged and utterly lose interest. It doesn't even have to be relevant to my situation personally. If I can contribute to somebody's quality of life, I'm good. It makes my time mean something. If it's just sales of something completely irrelevant to that basic quality of life, fuhgedaboudit. For example, being a relay operator for the deaf - that's hugely relevant to major quality of life issues for a poorly served population, so I'm incredibly happy doing that. Additionally, writing for Premier Guitar combines my two major passions, so I love that as much as I love breathing. Being able to write for Premier Guitar while between relay phone calls is perfection. On the other hand, selling consulting services to institutions that contribute enormously to the debt load of a population just getting a start in life, no thanks... couldn't do it no matter how hard I tried.

The other thing I'd like to work my way around is the whole making-megabucks-for-somebody-else-and-getting-paid-squat-to-do-it thing. That sucks and I don't ever want to do it again. I think I would be okay with making megabucks for me, but would need to try it to find out for sure.

So, what do I love?

playing guitar
writing
writing songs
writing poetry
creativity-based counseling/mentoring
cooking
walking
sewing

Alright, so the theme, excepting walking, is creating stuff, whether it's music or poems or articles or meals or clothes or whatever else I dream up that I want to create. I have to be engaged in some kind of creative act or I'm not happy. No wonder I sucked at every job I ever had, save this last one, where I get to use my brain for whatever I want about half the time I'm there - and I get paid no less for using it.

So far I have managed to combine some of these loves quite nicely. Song-writing, for example. And writing about guitars. Poetry sometimes turns into lyrics, though not all that often. The mentoring part is cool; I get to help other people create their own stuff. Gotta love that.

Cooking is often compared to music - you lay down a groove, and play with ingredients and seasonings like they're notes or phrases. A stew becomes an edible jam session. A casserole is an ensemble piece. The dough rises like a saxophone solo. The colors in a soup become individual melodic lines. In the summer, we used to make Garden Soup. Fresh veggies, right out of the garden: green beans, peas, corn, onion, broccoli and cauliflower in a veggie or chicken stock, cooked until JUST tender, and then at the very end add a little red cabbage and a chopped up tomato, and the broth turns magenta, and all the colors sing like angels.

Sewing is also sort of a jam session; texture, color, pattern, detailing. There's a structure to a jacket, and very strict rules to follow so that it drapes a body properly, accentuating the curves of the body, drawing or deflecting attention at will, but the detailing is all about expression. I have fabric love. I love interesting textures and woven patterns. I love the way certain fabrics drape sensuously, while other fabrics freakin' testify. It's a marvel to me how it's all done, how the warp and weft of simple threads can result in such dramatically different looks and feels.

Walking, on the other hand, is like a spiritual thing. In my mind, Nature and God cannot be separated or distinguished, so walking out in the woods becomes very prayerful and meditative for me. I once stayed at a hermitage out in the woods for an entire week where there was a "labyrinth" that could be walked as a meditation. I must have walked that thing 100 times. It was bliss.

There are other things that I love, but these are the biggies, the ones I could be happy doing for the rest of my life. Okay, brain needs to settle a bit now.

Clear, like mud

So it's time for me to take an inventory, or several is more likely. What am I good at? What do I love to do? What are the things that I really hate doing, and how can I avoid having to do them ever again? What assets do I have? Which of those assets are useful in doing what I love and am good at, or avoiding what I hate to do?

I must confess, when I was a child, and friends wanted to play "house," I didn't want to be "the mommy." I wanted to be "the guitar player." My friends had no comprehension of what my role would be in these makeshift families (which seems to be the case for a lot of guitar players finding their way in the grown-up version of "house"), but that didn't dim my desire to play that roll. I've compromised the purity of that desire a bit in my life. I have been "mommy" and "bread winner" and "business partner" and "wife" and any number of other things. Lately, "writer" has kind of eclipsed "guitar player" and that's been okay. It seems to keep my Muses satisfied, though I do miss playing in front of an audience. Okay, in front of an appreciative audience that "gets" it. I don't miss playing in most bars and restaurants.

I suppose I still have an audience: the readers of Premier Guitar Magazine, and the few who read this blog. And people do write in or comment on the web site, and most of the time they're terrifically supportive and appreciative, and that's very nice, and the pay is comparable to gigging. Being able to hang out at home on the couch and turn my thoughts into revenue is just about the most wonderful thing I can imagine.

So writing goes into the "love" column, and hopefully it is high enough on the "good-at" scale for me to give it so grand of a place in my life.

Now I have to ask myself, how do I really feel about being "the guitar player?" Is it still the central fire around which my heart and soul turn? That, dear reader, requires some mulling.

Inspiration

I watched the movie "Julia and Julie" a couple nights ago. That's a really, really good movie, especially if you like cooking, eating and writing, which I do. Julie decides to work her way through Julia Child's famous cookbook and blog about it, gets a huge following and a book deal and eventually gets her book made into a movie (yes, this very movie, a self-referential autobiographical film, gotta love that).

The movie made me want to cook (with butter) and eat (stuff made with butter) and write (hold the butter) and think, which is even more important. My thoughts are scattered and struggling to organize, but they're generally about reinvention. I just turned 45, which is probably just about mid-life for me (most of the women in my family live into their 90s) so it's time I got this puzzle put together, got this life figured out, sorted my ambitions and my drives and my loves and my needs into a workable, flexible, creatively-driven matrix that I can live and work in happily.

If I figure out how to do that, I'll write a damn book. In the meantime, I will continue to think and write, and will try not to eat so much butter that I explode.

Winter is here

So much for the weather folks predicting a mild winter. NOT. It's been snowing on and off all day, we've probably got eight inches now and it hasn't even kicked into blizzard-mode yet. Supposed to get REALLY nasty tonight. Great. I've asked a friend with 4 wheel drive to get me to work tomorrow.

I'm trying to introduce a new word into the culture - "snomance." Say it with me, "snomance." As in "This snomance is SO OVER." Work with me people. If "staycation" and "frenemies" can make it into the dictionary, "snomance" has got to be next. Then on to "guitargasmic."

I haven't finished any of those songs I started - just dealing with life, the universe and everything. It'll happen. It's not like I have any gigs to play any songs at anyway. Gotta do something about that.