I have always written with music close by my side. The music is there to help me reach that heightened crescendo of emotions in my writing - that extra umph to get me to that next level.
Its my drug of choice.
Words and music
Music and words
May I marinated in them till the last breath I have escapes this little body...
I've been thinking a lot lately - thinking about a lot of things. I've grown a lot in this last year and I want to keep up with that - never look back! Never surrender! And never, by no mean, EVER give up.
"I'll take 'Things that Look Good on Paper' Alex for $200"
Elated to deflated seems to happen to me all the time. This "great" idea I have then becomes another item to add to my "WTF pirates chest" I keep in the back of the warehouse I call my brain.
But still - I can't give up.
In my utter frustration I'll yell things to the sky as I wag my fist at some unseen force I've decided to blame for the mishaps of my life, "GIVE ME SIGN WILL YOU ALREADY?!! CHRIST! HIT ME WITH A CAR OR SOMETHING..." and then, "I take back that last part... the part about the car. But a sign would be nice! wink! wink! nod! nod!"
And I've had them come. Signs. Dreams. Things I need to take that next step...
I've dreamt of Bukowski, his hair all peppered and dirty. I've dreamt of him and he looked at me and said, "A. You just have to f**king do this. Every day I worked at that wretched post office. Every day I wrote at my desk. Every day. And look at me! I was 50 when things started rolling."
He's dirty and smells of cheap wine and smoking a cigarette - and I smile. Mostly happy that he's not trying to bed me.
But he's there, sitting in a wrecked old arm chair, tired and hung over and brilliant - my writing guardian angel. Good old Hank.
To be honest he's probably the reason I tend to listen to Brahms more than I listen to the Stones when I write. He's probably the reason Ralph Vaughan Williams is piping into my ears as I write this out. Bukowski hated that loud music that we love so much. That I love so much. But he was right when he spoke of the emotions that are held in every note of classical music - a violin tickling my brain.
We tend to get in the way of it.
We muck it all up as we walk around doing what we "think" we should.
We think too much.
I think too much.
I get in my own way.
I fumble on myself until I kick the crap out of me.
I won't be happy until I see blood.
I make me fail.
I want to write...
Then write! What are you waiting for?
An invitation perhaps
or a message from the President
There is no good time
There is only now, but still
The pile up on me like old bed sheets
on the laundry room floor.
I watch them grown and they only cause more problems
Things get inside there
But still... I want to write
I want people to say, "Did you read her book, it changed my life."
"Did you see that it's on the New York Times Best Seller list?"
"Did you know this is her first novel? I can't wait till she comes into town and I can meet her."
It's not fame I want
It's the satisfaction of holding my book
in my hands
THESE TWO LITTLE HANDS
and know that someone who lives on the other side of this planet read it
and can't wait till I write more...
I know that there is only now... I KNOW this... in the end it's like that old joke: