Introspective today, after a beautiful but disappointing visit with a good friend. In all things,you have to admit the obvious…what is, IS. No amount of wishing or hope will ever change those things. I’ll not get into detail, but the drive back from Orlando was a challenge.
Good tunes on the radio, though. I ended up getting a rental car (with some help) Not too shabby.
Anyway. it was an interesting trip back, trying to get certain thoughts OUT of my head and get other ones back IN. The radio came on with one of those familiar rock anthems, that lead me to a bit of minor subject matter in this post. Writing, what is going on, and a realization of my place in the grand scheme of things.
The tune was “Jukebox Hero.” That sums up the life of a writer. First, you’re a reader, with your head against the building in the rain. You hear that riff that rips you apart, and you go out and buy your own guitar. Slowly, you learn your craft. One day, you MIGHT play the big show.
Welcome. What used to be called “checkbook journalism” I now dub with a catchier and more relevant moniker. “Jukebox Journalism.”
You, the consumer put your nickle in and peruse the selection list. You keep playing your old favorites, but occasionally you wander down to the depths of G or H 50 and pull out a tasty riff. Your friends hear it, and soon everyone wants to hear that tune, or more like it.
Soon, too soon, it all fades away. The band (or journalist) in question keeps putting out the hits, but you seldom wander to the depths where you heard it first. If it isn’t TOP40, you’ll just keep on pulling up the same old riffs.
Then, you complain that the music is stale. I guess you kind of forgot that you bought and paid for it…repeatedly. When folks complain to me about the “media” being biased, I just chuckle…and keep thinking about all those nickles.
If you do what you always did, you’ll get what you always got, or some other such saying. That applies to writing, too. The last five years has been one hell of a journey. In that time (on a personal level) I’ve gone from being an accused (and admitted) hoarder to a guy that owns nothing more than a laptop and about four or five changes of clothes.
Kind of hard to be a hoarder that way, or at least to be accused of it. Along with changing my physical location and situation, there was a lot of mental work that went into that change.
I guess I’m trying to do the same thing with my writing. Other than here, I’ve not written much lately. We all know the internet doesn’t count. It’s just a conduit for free information…so you’re not even wasting that nickle.
For some unknown reason, the poet/scrounger/malcontent that I got somehow associated with (Bern Porter) and his epic diatribe “The Last Acts of Saint FuckYou” come to mind.
Now, planning the next leg of the journey. May be a few months, and don’t ask where…I have no idea.
Nor does it matter.