All it took was one question.
"What happened to your music writing?"
Or maybe two.
"Where do you write?"
Two questions in two days. The first, which, sequentially, I guess came second, from a good friend who used to love reading my blog. He picked it up before we were even really close friends. We were more acquaintances, and he used to rave about how passionate my writing was. I wasn't really writing it for anyone other than myself. I was just emoting on a keyboard, trying to describe my feelings about what I was hearing. I had so many feelings back then.
Since then, music hasn't really gotten to me deep through my blood like it did a few years ago. My heart used to beat around it. It was my escape from the world. I was first surrounded by an incredible music community in Athens, where it was my friends' lives, too. Then I was isolated in a post-college world, not knowing many people who even cared about anything beyond top 40.
I moved to Louisville, I was alone, I listened to music. I dated a guy I really cared about. We were both music crazed. We'd lay there and listen to Wilco and Real Estate and Deerhunter and everything. He loved everything I loved. I loved everything he loved. And when he broke my heart, I had to detach myself from that. Every song hurt. Every single song. New music was a little relief because I didn't have any memories with that yet.
I've had moments of music love since then. They're just few and further between. My mom tells me it's because I'm focusing on my day job, furthering my career.
I'd rather come home and watch some stupid show about vampires or teenage angst.
I got a message on Twitter yesterday from a music writer I greatly admire. He's coming to Cleveland and wanted suggestions, and we got to talking. He asked me where I write. Could I send him something I wrote? And I felt dread. And I realized that I can't remember the last time I wrote something that made me proud.
I can't remember a single one.
I told my friend this. The one who used to read my blog.
And he said, "send him something old."
And I asked, "Why? All my new stuff is shitty?"
He responded, "It's just not as passionate."
And he was just being honest, and I loved that. But I also felt incredibly disheartened.
So I'm making a vow right now. Every day, I'm going to write something down about music. Every day, I'm going to write one sentence on this blog. I'm not gonna worry about pictures and things that make this an attractive space. I'm just going to promise to write something.
And if there's no time to blog it, it goes in my phone, to be posted on another date.
I'm writing for me. Maybe, yeah, I'll write a thing or two for publications. Here and there. But I'm getting back into what this blog was supposed to be. Not a place to put my published work. A place to vent and rave and scream like my pointer finger was just shredded off. I'm here to shout from the top of skyscrapers, and to burrow into a cave and cry. I'm here to warm up the icicles my fingers have become after stepping outside for two minutes in a Cleveland winter. And I'm here to light my hair on fire. I'm here to talk about characters, and feelings and there will be no time wasted about why I think something is so mediocre. I'm so sick of mediocre. I want to feel it, insanely wonderful or shudderingly awful. And I will.