“This is your very first post.” Thanks, WordPress, it’s my first with your domain and the first where my thoughts and name are directly attached to each other. That could either be a good idea or a really bad one. I guess time will tell.
The idea behind this blog is to create a space that people can tap into to see what I’m up too. As of right now, I’m hollering at my dogs, who insist that their barking at the rain is necessary. But in a few minutes, I’ll be signing off the computer to take some of the day’s frustrations out on the guitar.
I posted a video of me singing Carrie Underwood’s “Dirty Laundry” a couple nights ago and promised to explain. Up until a week ago, I hadn’t picked up my guitar in 3 years. Yes, you read that correctly; three. I’ve dodged every question asking how my songwriting was going with the clever, “oh you know.” In reality, you didn’t know, only two other people knew my husband and brother. My husband dropped it, my brother hinted, and I didn’t hold myself accountable which was the fatal error. I was convinced that I would be better off without something that broke my heart as often as it healed it.
A year ago, I was challenged by one of the kids at the theater to sing Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” jokingly, because most people don’t sing that particular song. But, that is one I’m good at, and I sing it often. They all heard me, the managers, customers, the girl in the boxed off room, and the boy’s eyes were wide. I guess the tattoo on my arm was legit at this point, and the challenge was won. That night stirred up my thinking; why did I stop? Here I was working two jobs, exhausted, and on the edge of a nervous breakdown every moment of every day. Singing was an escape, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to enjoy the sound of my voice. Maybe my anxiety wasn’t as rooted in corporate America as much as it was rooted in the need to fulfill a creative side I’d pretty much ignored. My guitar sat, and as we packed boxes to move to Portland Oregon I looked at the guitar wondering; Could I part with it? That thought alone terrified me, it’s a special guitar with amazing memories, I must have drifted further off the path than I thought.
So here we are in Portland, and now in close proximity, my brother insisted on art. One evening, he didn’t let up, and I gave him ALL the excuses. I was pissed he (and his friend) were trying to make something I’d given up a passion. The next night my husband was working late, I was sad, I don’t do well being left alone sometimes. On a whim, I picked her up. She was only slightly out of tune, even though I’d neglected her entirely, and I cried, because playing my old songs hurt, writing the chorus to a new song, hurt my heart. It was lonely, a part of me screaming nothing had changed. Something DID change. I went back the next night, I uploaded a snippet of me singing. And I’ve practiced every night since.
I’ve spent the majority of my 20s in misery thanks to a screwed up high school boyfriend, allowing life to take control, working office jobs that didn’t work in favor of my future, and never telling people “No.” Am I too old to consider singing as a career? Likely. But oh well. Somewhere in this city, there is someone who could care less about the business of music and wants someone to write with.
“Believe me, I’m real” – Amanda Palmer, The Art of Asking