As a writer and musician at age 57, I find my writing as advanced to the point at which I feel somewhat happier with my written output. I throw out a little less — or is it that I’m simply writing more? I have a sense now of time hanging over me, a metronome setting the tempo of my life until it ultimately winds down. Life is a long song…
I find inspiration in everything.
I never suffer from writer’s block — if anything, I suffer from writer’s cramp. I like the process of working until I have down exactly what I want to say, most of the time. And I like producing work I’m pleased with. Sometimes others like it, too, and I’m grateful when that happens. But I have to start out writing from my shoes, from where I am now. I can’t write something I think others would like, because I have no idea what others think. I’m no mind reader. I lost of lot of time in my youth thinking that I was. But here, out on the edges of life, I don’t have that illusion anymore.
So, what about the cats and Ian Anderson?
Imagine for a moment you get to attend a private show put on by a musician you love and respect. A show you personally experience live with about 30 others, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
That’s exactly what happened to me on Wednesday, June 5, 2002, at a private pre-concert reception with Ian Anderson at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts. The reception was put on by Wild About Cats for the benefit of the Andean Mountain Cat, and Ian Anderson is nothing if not a cat lover.
My love of cats, and of the music of Ian Anderson, brought me one of the greatest thrills of my life.
But allow me to rewind a moment.
Back in the day…
In the late 70s and early 80s I played a lot of live music, tried my hand at writing some songs — a handful of good ones, a dumpster full of junk — and played with some good musicians. In those days there was the youthful hope of “making it” in the music scene. And when that didn’t happen, I went on to hone my writing skills for other purposes. I’d been a professional science writer for a few years by 1981, in the service of making complex technology understandable to those who had to install, maintain, repair, and/or use it. That was my day job.
When I stopped playing professionally in 1983, I also went on a songwriting hiatus.
A 20-year songwriting hiatus.
Oh, the creative spark still lived. I wrote a lot of bad poetry and enough short stories to finally see one published, plus two not very good novels. Did some comedy writing, too, on one of the first humor and satire websites. And spent many years in the great black funk of daily depression, employed in Silicon Valley and hating every second of it.
If you are an artist, writer, or musician, you’ve likely been there. Or maybe not. If you’re lucky.
And along came Mr. Anderson.
So, when the opportunity arose in 2002 to see Jethro Tull, one of my favorite bands of all time, I decided to go. And subsequently snapped up the opportunity to see Ian Anderson perform in a private show.
At the appointed time I was ushered into a private area with a bar, grand piano, and a few chairs surrounding a stool and a microphone.
I sat in front, and in came Ian Anderson, looking very much the English country gentleman, armed with his flute, a guitar, and his flair for performance and exotic storytelling. He played and, as I watched and listened, the old flame danced inside me, too, and I became aware that I was watching someone do the very thing I loved to do. He’d stuck with his art and craft, and I realized with a sudden sadness I’d abandoned mine.
And so it was that, thanks to cats and Ian Anderson, I discovered what I’d been depressed about all those years:
I hadn’t been living the creative life I deeply and truly wanted to live.
Here was a chap, one of the founders of what was called “prog rock,” a songwriter and performer who’d kept at it in spite of all the barriers to success and longevity he’d surely encountered along the way. Not a “rock god,” but a man who’d found his own way to live a creative life of his making, who brought his creative mind completely into everything he did, whether it was running a successful salmon fishery (!), performing in arenas, or having a nice chat and show with a small group of eager fans.
Just a guy. Hell, he doesn’t even drive.
But I knew when I met him that I’d done myself a disservice by listening to those who’d told me, over and over again through the years, that you cannot make a living writing and playing music. It’s a young person’s game… it’s who you know… it’s a hard slog getting your music heard… ye gods, there are so many reasons people give you for giving up.
So, I’ve reached the point in my life at which I am making a living writing, helping others make sense of the world, and making music. It’s astounding, really, and I’m only just getting started, seems like. After doing it awhile, taking a two-decade break, then spending another 10 years learning to let go, let the ink flow from the pen, let the notes float from the guitar in my hands, and find that here I am, a beginner all over again.
I dream someday I might be able to sit with Ian Anderson over a nice adult beverage and talk with him about his own inner fire, the flame that burst forth in his inner hearth from the heat of his intention and focus. That’s what inspires me now.
Life is a long song… and the tune ends too soon for us all.
Onward.