Who I’m talking to

Last night I was sketching a list of goals, big and small, for my musical career. One of them was “be biography worthy”.

Tying that to how I ended my last post about why I started writing songs and the comment I made about how a singer’s negative feelings have value I think I can articulate something I’ve been trying to explain for a while.

I’m fond of saying stories only have meaning because they have endings. And I definitely live my life like it’s a story about me.

When a writer has a difficult childhood and makes great art that childhood now has positive value. If they don’t then it’s just a meaningless shitty thing you have to live with.

Same with depression, addiction, alienation… all the cornerstones of my life. If I don’t become a great artist then my life just makes no sense, then my life is just a shitty thing that happened to me until I finally died.

That’s where my internal pressure comes from and that’s it doesn’t make sense to most people. Your average broken person doesn’t need art to justify their crappy childhood because they see it as an unjustifiable thing.

Most either ignore or overcome their history. If you ignore it you relive it and it consumes you, if you overcome it then congratulations. I don’t think it’s stupendously healthy to view it as half of an equation.

And it’s not about proving anybody wrong or about fixing anything. It’s more like the mentality that stops you from throwing out something you don’t need but isn’t broken. That perfectly operational stereo you moved into the basement then into the garage. That’s my life. I see it sometimes when I’m cleaning up.


Singer/songwriter, jerk.

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