“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
I Can't Even Open the Word Doc (On Finishing ... or Starting to Finish)

I Can't Even Open the Word Doc (On Finishing ... or Starting to Finish)

I am scared.

I'm sitting down here this morning to do it: To start to finish.

I've chased my tail on this project for so long. I've overcomplicated it. I've made the story about me. 

(I'm talking about writing my memoir about my days in a NYC-based indie rock band. It's been in the works for over 5 years.)

It's not about me, even though it's my perception of the story.

(I almost wrote "my perfection of the story." What a slip!)

It's about the time (the 1990s). It's about the place (NYC, always a great backdrop for a good story). It's about the people (the band, my bandmates!, our friends, our family). It's about the magic that was in that time. And yes, of course, I was a part of that, and my own particular and hopefully at least somewhat charming neuroses is a part of that too. That's part of why I'm telling it—to show people that you can be neurotic and depressive and anxious and at times crazy and still create a great life. And still live a dumb kid's dream. And still make good music. 

But I'm also telling it because it, as a story and as a whole, wants to be told. 

It wants to be told because I had cancer, and I thought I would lose the part of me that I always had, the thing that's been with me as long as I can remember, and the thing I gave as a contribution to my art and my music that I always took for granted but was always sublime perfection in the way that simplicity and joy-inducing gifts are to those they are bestowed upon: My voice.

It's almost too simple, but if I could no longer sing, I just wouldn't be me.

I don't know what the point of that is, but it's a pure message and story that wants to be told. It's like Dorothy and her magical red shoes. "You always had it, my dear. You always had the magic."

I still haven't opened the document that contains my memoir, but I'm getting closer.

Damn. I am so not in the mood

Damn. I am so not in the mood

Let's Talk About Finishing

Let's Talk About Finishing