Something Old

I realized last night while I was trying to get comfortable in my bed that I write a blog.

I know…this is a surprise?

No.

I write a blog about being a musician

but I don’t ever write about being a musician.

How strange and stupid is that?

I’ll always remember the struggle it took to get me to a place where I would admit that I wanted to be a musician. I studied it in college. Why was I in such denial?  I would tell people anything. I would work any job but music.  Even when I quit my job to pursue music I would say something like, “This is gonna sound stupid but….I’m a musician.”

What Andrew comes home to

What Andrew comes home to. Hey at least I'm not sitting in the dark.

And this is not unjustified.  I have had a lot of people try and convince me of how unwise my decision is.  I’ve had a lot of people sneer. I’ve had a lot of tears shed because of cruelty or ignorance and the worst part is that a lot of the time…I’m the one saying all the mean stuff.

In an attempt to help myself and others understand what I do I will be doing a series of posts on being a musician.

Today I’ll be discussing the notebook. (dum. dum. dum….)

Yes. You heard me – the notebook not to be confused with that sappy chick flick with all the love making that makes women audibly sob.

I’m not talking about the kind that Mac sells for thousands of dollars and heats up real fast on your lap either…although…I guess that would technically work…ugh.

Every writer alike has one. It doesn’t matter what color or what size but every single one has one.  It may be electronic.  It may be spiral bound.  It may be homemade.  But if you know a writer or an artist chances are they have one of these babies.

Here are a few of mine...yeah I don't just have one.

Here are a few of mine...yeah I don't just have one. The chap-stick is also very important.

I have filled up three huge ones in just the last year  (bigger than the three pictured above).

With what you may ask.

Oh just genius musings about life, love, spiritual longing and loss.  Just that…nothing big…nothing important

I remember starting this while I was working for the Refugee Resettlement office.  I would find brilliant lines coming to me as I spoke to refugees from all over the world.  I would stop and quickly write them down on post it notes or legal pads.  One day I compiled all the little lines I had written and realized I had about a million different pieces of paper that should probably find a way to stay together.

Ahh…a book! A book to keep all my musings in!  What a novel idea.

My sister care had bought me  a little travel book for my birthday and I slid it into my purse with everything else.

Now you won’t find me going anywhere without it.

I don’t think most of my pros or poetry will find it to the public eye but it brings me comfort to know that they are there somewhere existing.

It is kind of a thrill to go back and look at the beginning of songs that are now recorded and for sale.  It’s kind of awesome to see  your brain processing what you already know exists.

I know.

I’m a dork.

But I don’t care.

Plus I figure if I die and my music has never exploded into popularity my kids can have some idea of how I spent my time.  They can have some consolations as to why their mom was such a space cadet.

In other parts of my world: Cried and cleaning yesterday.  I think this means I’m nearing the end.

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4 responses

  1. I have so many of those things, frequently I will decorate the cover to hide the so cute Kitten or the harry potter house crest that originally adorned it when I found it unwanted for a dollar in the back of some store. I started to just try to keep a diary, you know EVERY girl is supposed to have one but my “dairy”, like my “favorite must have can’t sleep with out it toy” and my “imaginary friend” didn’t last long as it was forced from a feeling that it was some how required and eventually it just started to fill with random thoughts and doodle of projects I never actually started…

  2. Writers always struggle to justify how they spend their time and it’s time this stopped. I recently read a book by Hemingway called “A Movable Feast” where he wrote about writing and living in Paris. His idea was to live as frugally as possible so he could write as much as possible. Every day he tried to write the the “truest thing” he knew.
    Writing is a difficult craft; it takes time and space and quiet and order. Best wishes on your new blog topic. I’m looking forward to reading it. And I’m proud of you.

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