My Nana turns 96 on Halloween. This photo with my grandfather and mom was taken in 1949.
October 30, 2006
The leaves are falling, daylight savings is over, there's an early morning frost on the dormant grass. Soon puddles will ice over and I'll be wearing gloves. Earlier this week I was actually sitting at the computer with a jacket and scarf. For three days I froze, it felt like an ice box in my house.
I grew depressed not understanding how it had turned so quickly. Then I realized my heater was broken. I was just so busy, working on that Poets & Writers article, the studio was booked almost every day too. I knew something was odd, me and the cats huddled up at night, our teeth chattering.
The boiler conked out when I got a delivery on Monday. Here in the northeast it's oil heat. I've got a five-hundred gallon tank. The fresh oil stirs up the sediment in the tank and on occasion that clogs the system and it shuts down. I didn't realize until Thursday.
To top it off, I got the season's first heating bill -- over five hundred and sixty-three bucks. I'm fixed at $2.66 a gallon. Last year it was $2.16, the year before that: $1.69; it was 85 cents back in 1995. It's enough to make me sick, or at least wear two sweaters and throw an extra blanket on the bed.
I just bought a glass door for my fireplace. Once the fire goes out, the flue sucks out the warm air, and in the morning I come downstairs to a freezing living room and kitchen. This year I'll be able to close it off when I go to bed and keep the heat in.
I thought about getting a pellet stove, but it uses over five-hundred dollars in pellets a season, the stove costs two grand. I'd hate to give up my fireplace. There's nothing like the crackle of oak, the smell of mesquite wafting up through the house on a cold winter day. A half-a-cord of wood only runs a hundred-and-ten bucks.
My Nana, over in England, turns 96 on Halloween. She was born in 1910, the year of Halley's Comet. She's lived through two world wars, the invention of radio, TV, the Internet too. When she was a kid the only food in existence was organic food. Nobody paid a premium for free range chickens or eggs, that's just the way it was. It's hard for me to imagine what she feels like, given what she's seen. Happy Birthday Nana!
Thankfully, the election is coming to an end. Here in Connecticut the republicans ran an ad saying that Diane Farrell had befriended the Taliban. I mean really, Diane Farrell is no saint, but a friend of the Taliban, please, I doubt she could pick out Afghanistan on a map, let alone be in cahoots with terrorists. It made Shays look like an idiot, which to his credit, he admitted.
Catch any political ad nowadays and one can only conclude that all politicians must think that we the electorate are schmucks. Mudslinging has become a high art form. But since 9/11 there's an even more diabolical strategy: keep an eye on the terror alert color scheme this week. Also, look for gas prices to rise post election.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Mississippi Bound?
Barry Hannah in his library, Oxford, Mississippi.
October 23, 2006
You can’t imagine the looks I get from friends when I tell them I’m thinking about moving to Mississippi. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. A lot has to happen before this becomes a reality; my three-day trip to Oxford was a first step. Before applying to the Ole Miss MFA program, I needed to see what the place was like, to make sure I could live there.
Oxford is a small university town. Courthouse Square is the hub with stately southern, well preserved buildings. Two-story wood structures with clapboard porches, house independent bookstores, quality restaurants, student haunts, antique shops, and a handful of bars featuring live music.
The University has excellent facilities, the campus looks great, there are modern buildings and well-maintained old ones too. Its spread out across a wooded campus and rolling hills. Football is king, but literature is a close second.
Mississippi is the poorest state in the union, but it’s steeped in a deep, rich literary tradition. Some say the country’s greatest writers were born here. The list is impressive: Faulkner, Welty, Williams, Brown, Ford, Spencer, Bass, and of course Barry Hannah, one of America’s great living writers.
The opportunity to apprentice with Barry is unique. We met this summer at Sewanee. Until I’d met Barry, it had never crossed my mind to get an MFA. I was unaware that some places offer full scholarships as well as living expenses. John Grisham sponsors several fellowships at Ole Miss.
Naturally, it’s competitive. Barry can’t guarantee a slot, there’s a committee, an application process, I'd have to take the GRE. That might kill it right there, I can't add or subtract without a calculator. I don't remember algebra or geometry. It cost $130 to take the test nowadays. But it’s quite an honor to have someone like Barry encouraging me to apply.
Some highlights of the trip -- visiting Faulkner's house. Having lunch with Barry and his wife. Sitting in on a class. Seeing Barry's home, his library, the place where he writes. I also visited Memphis, an hour to the north. I made a pilgrimage to Graceland and Sun Records, the birthplace of rock and roll.
Oxford, Mississippi, it's a great place to visit, it might also be a wonderful place to hang my hat and pen. Last night I went on-line and ordered an application...
October 23, 2006
You can’t imagine the looks I get from friends when I tell them I’m thinking about moving to Mississippi. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. A lot has to happen before this becomes a reality; my three-day trip to Oxford was a first step. Before applying to the Ole Miss MFA program, I needed to see what the place was like, to make sure I could live there.
Oxford is a small university town. Courthouse Square is the hub with stately southern, well preserved buildings. Two-story wood structures with clapboard porches, house independent bookstores, quality restaurants, student haunts, antique shops, and a handful of bars featuring live music.
The University has excellent facilities, the campus looks great, there are modern buildings and well-maintained old ones too. Its spread out across a wooded campus and rolling hills. Football is king, but literature is a close second.
Mississippi is the poorest state in the union, but it’s steeped in a deep, rich literary tradition. Some say the country’s greatest writers were born here. The list is impressive: Faulkner, Welty, Williams, Brown, Ford, Spencer, Bass, and of course Barry Hannah, one of America’s great living writers.
The opportunity to apprentice with Barry is unique. We met this summer at Sewanee. Until I’d met Barry, it had never crossed my mind to get an MFA. I was unaware that some places offer full scholarships as well as living expenses. John Grisham sponsors several fellowships at Ole Miss.
Naturally, it’s competitive. Barry can’t guarantee a slot, there’s a committee, an application process, I'd have to take the GRE. That might kill it right there, I can't add or subtract without a calculator. I don't remember algebra or geometry. It cost $130 to take the test nowadays. But it’s quite an honor to have someone like Barry encouraging me to apply.
Some highlights of the trip -- visiting Faulkner's house. Having lunch with Barry and his wife. Sitting in on a class. Seeing Barry's home, his library, the place where he writes. I also visited Memphis, an hour to the north. I made a pilgrimage to Graceland and Sun Records, the birthplace of rock and roll.
Oxford, Mississippi, it's a great place to visit, it might also be a wonderful place to hang my hat and pen. Last night I went on-line and ordered an application...
Monday, October 16, 2006
Politics, books and Mississippi
October 16, 2006
Amazon has created a way to present my favorite books and CDs to visitors on my site. From time to time I'll feature friends and teachers, or something that has taken my breath away. If you want to buy something, Amazon will sell it to you. I'm the filter. It's a cool way to introduce you to the artists that have most influenced my work.
Speaking of which, this week I'm off to Oxford, Mississippi to spend a few days with Barry Hannah. I met Barry this summer at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. One day I took a ride off the mountain with him and his dog, Nell, to a nearby Wal Mart. I wrote about that a few months back. Barry and I have stayed in contact. I'm going to Ole Miss to check out the literary scene and talk about my writing.
While I'm there, I'll be meeting another esteemed writer, Tom Franklin. He wrote a critically acclaimed short story collection called Poachers. His most recent novel, Hell at the Breech, is about an Alabama gang of vigilante/criminals in the late 1800's. The book has received rave reviews. I was hooked from the opening page. I'm a big Larry McMurtry fan, this is in that tradition.
On the Connecticut political front, Shays and Farrell duked it out in their first of eleven debates for US Congress. Shays said in one interaction that this isn't a national election, it's about what we can do for the district. In a different time, I would have agreed, but not this year. Farrell retorted: everyone knows that this is a national election. She's right.
The Nobel Peace prize was awarded to one of the founders of third-world micro-finance. The concept is simple enough. Lend poor people fifty bucks, give them training, hold them accountable for the loan. I've seen this in Haiti -- women given cash to buy a few chickens, seed, or flour. They sell products at markets, they earn profit, they payback the loan; sometimes they borrow more to expand. In the process they develop self-sufficiency, they learn marketable skills, they gain self-esteem.
I'm working on a piece about a Haitian woman that was lent fifty dollars. I will detail what she bought, sold, and how it changed her life. When its done, I'll post it here.
Time to pack, I'm heading south...
rsw
Amazon has created a way to present my favorite books and CDs to visitors on my site. From time to time I'll feature friends and teachers, or something that has taken my breath away. If you want to buy something, Amazon will sell it to you. I'm the filter. It's a cool way to introduce you to the artists that have most influenced my work.
Speaking of which, this week I'm off to Oxford, Mississippi to spend a few days with Barry Hannah. I met Barry this summer at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. One day I took a ride off the mountain with him and his dog, Nell, to a nearby Wal Mart. I wrote about that a few months back. Barry and I have stayed in contact. I'm going to Ole Miss to check out the literary scene and talk about my writing.
While I'm there, I'll be meeting another esteemed writer, Tom Franklin. He wrote a critically acclaimed short story collection called Poachers. His most recent novel, Hell at the Breech, is about an Alabama gang of vigilante/criminals in the late 1800's. The book has received rave reviews. I was hooked from the opening page. I'm a big Larry McMurtry fan, this is in that tradition.
On the Connecticut political front, Shays and Farrell duked it out in their first of eleven debates for US Congress. Shays said in one interaction that this isn't a national election, it's about what we can do for the district. In a different time, I would have agreed, but not this year. Farrell retorted: everyone knows that this is a national election. She's right.
The Nobel Peace prize was awarded to one of the founders of third-world micro-finance. The concept is simple enough. Lend poor people fifty bucks, give them training, hold them accountable for the loan. I've seen this in Haiti -- women given cash to buy a few chickens, seed, or flour. They sell products at markets, they earn profit, they payback the loan; sometimes they borrow more to expand. In the process they develop self-sufficiency, they learn marketable skills, they gain self-esteem.
I'm working on a piece about a Haitian woman that was lent fifty dollars. I will detail what she bought, sold, and how it changed her life. When its done, I'll post it here.
Time to pack, I'm heading south...
rsw
Monday, October 9, 2006
Song and Love
October 9, 2006
Since the dawn of rock and roll teenagers have learned to play guitar to attract the opposite sex. In eighth grade I went out with a ninth-grade girl. No way a boy does that without a cherry-red Harmony electric. A guitar overcomes a lot of personality quirks, but it doesn’t trump a senior with a car. I was devastated when Christine broke up with me, but my first song came out of that heartbreak and it helped with the healing. Although my newly found status as a songwriter was no threat to a guy with a driver's license, it did put me ahead of mere guitar players.
Performing in coffee houses kept the social life active through college, but writing also allowed me to explore feelings, I got to know myself better. Soon after graduation I was married. Tragically, it was time to grow up, get a job, put my guitar in the closet.
Twenty years later I was a vice president for a division of a major record company, wishing I'd never stopped playing. I bought a couple of classic, vintage guitars, dusted off my old Martin too. I rediscovered songwriting. I took guitar lessons, attended workshops, I wrote my wife a couple of sappy love songs. She said that’s nice, then bought me a pair of headphones. We’re divorced now, but the issue was much larger than me and those guitars.
Now that I’m single again, writing songs takes on a new dimension. It’s not the means to score women it was in my misspent youth, rather an additional way to express myself. Recently I studied with Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. They taught me how to dig deep for inspiration, find serendipity. I learned the nuts and bolts too.
Marshall McLuhan said the medium is the message. Songs are potent vehicles, but they are subject to misinterpretation. Sometimes when you write a song for someone, the result isn’t as you expect. I learned this lesson the hard way back in high school.
In tenth grade I had the hots for Donna Duclose, but she was going out with Alex Savage, an eleventh grader with a Camaro. One night Donna and I hung out behind the gym and started kissing. I wrote What Do You Do?. I made her a cassette copy:
What do you do
When your mind is confused
You don’t know what’s going on
But you know you’re the fuse
Savage got a hold of the tape. He drove over in that fast car with a buddy. They burned a couple of wheelies in front of my parent’s house. They jumped out of the Camaro and beat me up. That was the end of me and Donna.
Almost thirty years later, with several years of so-called serious songwriting under my belt, I put my new found craft to work. My marriage was on the rocks and I wrote Going for a Ride: in an attempt to get things back on track:
I want to feel like I did that time we met
When the wind blew through our hair
We drove all day with the top rolled down
Like new found millionaires
My wife never heard it because she left me for another guy before I could play it for her. No song was going to get us back from that.
The divorce wasn’t pretty, but it provided a great source of material for writing. My first few dates after two decades worth of marriage were a disaster, but eventually I met someone that was worthy of a song. Gail and I had similar tastes in music and during the holidays I gave her a recording of a tune she inspired. The song wasn’t for her, but that was a subtle distinction she failed to grasp despite my awkward explanation. She heard it once and fell in love. I blame that damn song for ruining what was a good situation. We both knew it was too soon for me to get into something deep, but I should’ve known better than to write that song.
I’ve written several others for women since, but I’m more cautious about sharing. Maybe She Loves Me was about Nadine, my yoga instructor. I really liked her and I thought she dug me too, but she refused to go out, saying she didn't date students. We had great chemistry, a real connection, so I wrote this:
Maybe she loves me
But she don't know it
Maybe she loves me
Just can't show it -- maybe that's it
Maybe she loves me
But she can't risk a lot
Maybe she loves me
Maybe not
I never played it for Nadine because I valued our friendship, I loved her class. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that. Today we're still good friends. Looking back on how things were, it’s clear that if she'd heard that song, the answer would've been: Not.
Cool Things Down was about a fiery relationship last year. Jules and I burned like a fourth of July sparkler, it was hot, passionate, short-lived. This was inspired by our first fight:
And when you hear the sound of thunder
Don’t run away
Baby, give it one more day
Cause when it rains
It will cool things down
Nothing could have cooled down that affair, Jules ran at the first crack of thunder.
Last week I wrote I Can’t Fall. It was inspired by Sara, a beautiful songwriter I met this summer at a workshop. She's smart, funny, warm, she has an angelic voice and plays a great honky-tonk guitar. We have so much in common that it scared me, but it also gave me an idea for a song. I took a gamble and sent an mp3 to her via email (she doesn’t live locally).
I Can't Fall is about the fear of exposing the heart, that feeling of vulnerability when you’re unsure if the other person is feeling the same. I probably shouldn’t have sent this, the love pundits would say it’s too soon. And yet I know Sara likes me, but this could cause her to put on the breaks. Oh well, it’s too late now:
I Can’t Fall
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
She’s a sports car with a rag top
She’s the sound of a mountain stream
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
I’m a forest after the fire
I’m the eye of a hurricane
And I have walked a thousand miles
To avoid love’s pain
Cause I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
There’s a second chance
For broken hearts that still believe
It’s a simple dance
Anyone can learn this dance of love
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
And she’d be worth it, of that I’m certain
She’d be a star on any team
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
If I let her in
I’ll fall in love
The song was supposed to let Sara know I thought she was terrific, that despite my baggage, I still believed 'Love' was possible. She liked it, but had a few melodic suggestions (that’s the dynamic of going out with a fellow songwriter). They were good ideas and I took them on board. But things felt different between us. She called less frequently, and when we did talk, she seemed preoccupied. Long distance relationships are never easy. I thought the song would boost her confidence to take a chance, but she pulled back. Did the song accelerate the inevitable? Maybe.
Some people believe getting a girl is a lot like fishing -- you’ve got to know how to handle that reel: bring ‘em in too fast or too slow and you’ll lose the catch. When I was a kid, love songs were an essential tool in my bait-and-tackle box. We talked of catching women the way Hemingway would write about the chase for marlin off the coast of Cuba.
There’s no doubt that writing love songs requires that same deft hand of a fisherman, but nowadays for me, getting a girl isn’t sport, it's certainly no game. And yet all too often it feels as if it is. I get sucked into playing with no idea what the rules are. But I’m not alone, I don’t think anyone knows. This engagement between two people is haphazard, with undetermined boundaries, the playing field is littered with causalities, and both sides all too often walk away losers.
I might not have a clue on how to catch fish, or play this game of love, but at least the songwriting provides an outlet, a means to cope with the joy and heartache of relationships.
Since the dawn of rock and roll teenagers have learned to play guitar to attract the opposite sex. In eighth grade I went out with a ninth-grade girl. No way a boy does that without a cherry-red Harmony electric. A guitar overcomes a lot of personality quirks, but it doesn’t trump a senior with a car. I was devastated when Christine broke up with me, but my first song came out of that heartbreak and it helped with the healing. Although my newly found status as a songwriter was no threat to a guy with a driver's license, it did put me ahead of mere guitar players.
Performing in coffee houses kept the social life active through college, but writing also allowed me to explore feelings, I got to know myself better. Soon after graduation I was married. Tragically, it was time to grow up, get a job, put my guitar in the closet.
Twenty years later I was a vice president for a division of a major record company, wishing I'd never stopped playing. I bought a couple of classic, vintage guitars, dusted off my old Martin too. I rediscovered songwriting. I took guitar lessons, attended workshops, I wrote my wife a couple of sappy love songs. She said that’s nice, then bought me a pair of headphones. We’re divorced now, but the issue was much larger than me and those guitars.
Now that I’m single again, writing songs takes on a new dimension. It’s not the means to score women it was in my misspent youth, rather an additional way to express myself. Recently I studied with Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. They taught me how to dig deep for inspiration, find serendipity. I learned the nuts and bolts too.
Marshall McLuhan said the medium is the message. Songs are potent vehicles, but they are subject to misinterpretation. Sometimes when you write a song for someone, the result isn’t as you expect. I learned this lesson the hard way back in high school.
In tenth grade I had the hots for Donna Duclose, but she was going out with Alex Savage, an eleventh grader with a Camaro. One night Donna and I hung out behind the gym and started kissing. I wrote What Do You Do?. I made her a cassette copy:
What do you do
When your mind is confused
You don’t know what’s going on
But you know you’re the fuse
Savage got a hold of the tape. He drove over in that fast car with a buddy. They burned a couple of wheelies in front of my parent’s house. They jumped out of the Camaro and beat me up. That was the end of me and Donna.
Almost thirty years later, with several years of so-called serious songwriting under my belt, I put my new found craft to work. My marriage was on the rocks and I wrote Going for a Ride: in an attempt to get things back on track:
I want to feel like I did that time we met
When the wind blew through our hair
We drove all day with the top rolled down
Like new found millionaires
My wife never heard it because she left me for another guy before I could play it for her. No song was going to get us back from that.
The divorce wasn’t pretty, but it provided a great source of material for writing. My first few dates after two decades worth of marriage were a disaster, but eventually I met someone that was worthy of a song. Gail and I had similar tastes in music and during the holidays I gave her a recording of a tune she inspired. The song wasn’t for her, but that was a subtle distinction she failed to grasp despite my awkward explanation. She heard it once and fell in love. I blame that damn song for ruining what was a good situation. We both knew it was too soon for me to get into something deep, but I should’ve known better than to write that song.
I’ve written several others for women since, but I’m more cautious about sharing. Maybe She Loves Me was about Nadine, my yoga instructor. I really liked her and I thought she dug me too, but she refused to go out, saying she didn't date students. We had great chemistry, a real connection, so I wrote this:
Maybe she loves me
But she don't know it
Maybe she loves me
Just can't show it -- maybe that's it
Maybe she loves me
But she can't risk a lot
Maybe she loves me
Maybe not
I never played it for Nadine because I valued our friendship, I loved her class. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that. Today we're still good friends. Looking back on how things were, it’s clear that if she'd heard that song, the answer would've been: Not.
Cool Things Down was about a fiery relationship last year. Jules and I burned like a fourth of July sparkler, it was hot, passionate, short-lived. This was inspired by our first fight:
And when you hear the sound of thunder
Don’t run away
Baby, give it one more day
Cause when it rains
It will cool things down
Nothing could have cooled down that affair, Jules ran at the first crack of thunder.
Last week I wrote I Can’t Fall. It was inspired by Sara, a beautiful songwriter I met this summer at a workshop. She's smart, funny, warm, she has an angelic voice and plays a great honky-tonk guitar. We have so much in common that it scared me, but it also gave me an idea for a song. I took a gamble and sent an mp3 to her via email (she doesn’t live locally).
I Can't Fall is about the fear of exposing the heart, that feeling of vulnerability when you’re unsure if the other person is feeling the same. I probably shouldn’t have sent this, the love pundits would say it’s too soon. And yet I know Sara likes me, but this could cause her to put on the breaks. Oh well, it’s too late now:
I Can’t Fall
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
She’s a sports car with a rag top
She’s the sound of a mountain stream
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
I’m a forest after the fire
I’m the eye of a hurricane
And I have walked a thousand miles
To avoid love’s pain
Cause I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
There’s a second chance
For broken hearts that still believe
It’s a simple dance
Anyone can learn this dance of love
She’s a sunset over an ocean
She’s the home coming queen
And she’d be worth it, of that I’m certain
She’d be a star on any team
But I’m afraid to open up
To let her touch my heart, I can’t fall…
If I let her in
I’ll fall in love
The song was supposed to let Sara know I thought she was terrific, that despite my baggage, I still believed 'Love' was possible. She liked it, but had a few melodic suggestions (that’s the dynamic of going out with a fellow songwriter). They were good ideas and I took them on board. But things felt different between us. She called less frequently, and when we did talk, she seemed preoccupied. Long distance relationships are never easy. I thought the song would boost her confidence to take a chance, but she pulled back. Did the song accelerate the inevitable? Maybe.
Some people believe getting a girl is a lot like fishing -- you’ve got to know how to handle that reel: bring ‘em in too fast or too slow and you’ll lose the catch. When I was a kid, love songs were an essential tool in my bait-and-tackle box. We talked of catching women the way Hemingway would write about the chase for marlin off the coast of Cuba.
There’s no doubt that writing love songs requires that same deft hand of a fisherman, but nowadays for me, getting a girl isn’t sport, it's certainly no game. And yet all too often it feels as if it is. I get sucked into playing with no idea what the rules are. But I’m not alone, I don’t think anyone knows. This engagement between two people is haphazard, with undetermined boundaries, the playing field is littered with causalities, and both sides all too often walk away losers.
I might not have a clue on how to catch fish, or play this game of love, but at least the songwriting provides an outlet, a means to cope with the joy and heartache of relationships.
Monday, October 2, 2006
Home - finally
October 2, 2006
This is the first time since mid-July that I’m home for more than five days in a row. It takes about a week to find my feet, to get back into a routine. When I worked full-time, I was on the road a lot – Tokyo, London, Sydney. I once commuted to Toronto every week from Westport, leaving the house on a Monday at 5 AM, returning Friday around 9 PM. I don’t miss that.
I took a yoga class each day this week, sometimes two. Although my ability to hold postures was far short of where I was prior to this travel, I’m far enough along in my practice to know that’s okay. I now have the strength to retreat into child’s pose when necessary. Last year I hurt my back pushing instead of listening to my body.
I didn’t get a lot of writing done this week. A few years ago that would have caused panic, but I went with it. I did a lot of cleaning instead. Buried in file cabinets were pages of early drafts and notes on songs, short stories and novels. I saved eight years worth of work, even illegible scribble. None saw the light of day since it was filed, so I tossed it all, over five-thousand pages.
I also found articles on writing, notes from conferences, snippets from song classes, things that I’m sure are very useful, but I’ve never looked at a single page, so out they went. Six large garbage bags were delivered to the Westport dump on Friday.
This week my songs were posted on the 615 Music site down in Nashville. They are part of a song catalog aimed at the film/tv market. 615 has been in that business for over twenty years. They wrote a theme song for NBC’s Today Show.
I’ve spent my whole life hanging out with great musicians so I’ve hooked up lots of my friends and acquaintances. It’s unlikely that we’ll get rich on this deal, but a little cash, a little exposure, it never hurts. It’s one of many things an artist can do to get ahead. If you, or anyone you know, has great original music with vocals, shoot me an email, I’m in need of all types of music.
Also this week:
Poets and Writers Magazine hired me to write an article about the three most important writers conferences – Squaw Valley, Sewanee, and Bread Loaf.
I’d pitched them on a handful of ideas over the years, all were politely rejected, but last month they did print a letter I wrote about an article they’d run on web sites. On Friday they contacted me about writing this piece on the big three writers’ conferences. It just goes to show that persistence does pay off.
This is the first time since mid-July that I’m home for more than five days in a row. It takes about a week to find my feet, to get back into a routine. When I worked full-time, I was on the road a lot – Tokyo, London, Sydney. I once commuted to Toronto every week from Westport, leaving the house on a Monday at 5 AM, returning Friday around 9 PM. I don’t miss that.
I took a yoga class each day this week, sometimes two. Although my ability to hold postures was far short of where I was prior to this travel, I’m far enough along in my practice to know that’s okay. I now have the strength to retreat into child’s pose when necessary. Last year I hurt my back pushing instead of listening to my body.
I didn’t get a lot of writing done this week. A few years ago that would have caused panic, but I went with it. I did a lot of cleaning instead. Buried in file cabinets were pages of early drafts and notes on songs, short stories and novels. I saved eight years worth of work, even illegible scribble. None saw the light of day since it was filed, so I tossed it all, over five-thousand pages.
I also found articles on writing, notes from conferences, snippets from song classes, things that I’m sure are very useful, but I’ve never looked at a single page, so out they went. Six large garbage bags were delivered to the Westport dump on Friday.
This week my songs were posted on the 615 Music site down in Nashville. They are part of a song catalog aimed at the film/tv market. 615 has been in that business for over twenty years. They wrote a theme song for NBC’s Today Show.
I’ve spent my whole life hanging out with great musicians so I’ve hooked up lots of my friends and acquaintances. It’s unlikely that we’ll get rich on this deal, but a little cash, a little exposure, it never hurts. It’s one of many things an artist can do to get ahead. If you, or anyone you know, has great original music with vocals, shoot me an email, I’m in need of all types of music.
Also this week:
Poets and Writers Magazine hired me to write an article about the three most important writers conferences – Squaw Valley, Sewanee, and Bread Loaf.
I’d pitched them on a handful of ideas over the years, all were politely rejected, but last month they did print a letter I wrote about an article they’d run on web sites. On Friday they contacted me about writing this piece on the big three writers’ conferences. It just goes to show that persistence does pay off.
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