i’ve been reading this book the last two days, called “bird by bird” by anne lamott. someone told me to read it about ten years ago, i forget if i bought the book or it was gifted to me. i even forget who told me to read it. can’t remember if it was a former coworker or girlfriend. but i am finally reading it, and i’ve known it was a book about writing that doubles as a book about life. and i could have told you there was likely some tie to the divine in it as a guiding light when you feel yourself too discouraged by the pain of existing to even jot down a word, let alone make some art you’re proud of. it feels like all the motivational “threads” that have been inundating my weird new little app / dopamine fix for the last week. it feels like all the things i would say to someone who might ask me “where do i even begin to make music?” when truthfully, i’m asking myself the same question pretty frequently. which brings me back to why i decided to finally start reading this book. sometimes you already know the answer to a question, but are too stubborn to take your own advice until a complete stranger says the same exact thing in a much prettier and slower and inspirational way than you could ever say to the fan in your soundcloud inbox.
there are a few books that i’ve started and stopped and started again in the last three years. all having to do with music or art or tech. i want to fucking finish reading them. and i want to finish an EP and my third album too. i want to practice the keys so i can jam more fluidly. i want to practice guitar, mostly because i think it’d be hot to learn. i want to get better at cooking and i want to be so good at taking care of my plants that one day my home feels like those overgrown forests of homes in tulum or something. making me wonder if the image is just AI or some really talented artist’s rendition of their unrealistic desires similar to mine. i want to pay off my debt and not feel guilty for taking my car in for its routine maintenance. i think about getting back into a job i might hate - just so i can pay it all down and fall right back into this dream life of mine - where i roll out of bed in the morning with no alarm and slowly ease my way into (hopefully) making something i’m proud of in the moment. but then i remember how i already did that work. i put the hours, the years in. working jobs i couldn’t fucking stand, so that maybe one day i would be lucky enough to do exactly what i’m doing right now.
this book i’ve been reading is about writing. i used to love writing, and not because i thought i was particularly good at it. it was just one of those things that seemed to pour out of me easily. i am always looking for a way to get into an immediate flow, to feel like i can keep up with my brain even if it’s just for an hour every couple weeks or so. even if it takes months to get to that sweet spot, of feeling like my brain and my body have been caught in sync for just a second. the proof being in a poem, or a song, or a really thoughtfully composed social media post. something to make me feel like maybe someone will completely understand me for a split second. maybe if i read or listen back to it, i can be transported into that feeling when i convince myself i will never exist in that moment again.
i don’t know if anyone will read this, and i’m debating if i want to make some sort of announcement about this new part of my website or if i want people to stumble upon this months from now and feel like they found someone’s diary. my favorite moments of discovery feel like i’ve been let in on a very well kept secret. i’d love if that is how my words/music/art (why is that always so painful to say) is consumed/enjoyed/received.
it’s so hard to decipher between what i feel is a valid form of expression vs complete and total self indulgence. maybe i should stop being so strict with myself. maybe fixating on it like this is actually self indulgent. lol whatever, i’m a dj who cares.