For the first time in six months, I felt at ease I was alone on my mother’s balcony.
It was 72 degrees, a bright April afternoon in South Texas.
The yard below me full and lush, with orange and purple bougambias roped around the columns that led up to her bedroom window. I’d just finished a cross-country trip down to Laredo to replace my Texas plates (apparently I’m still in denial about being a New Yorker). By the time I’d arrived in my hometown my mom was on vacation, so I decided to enjoy the house alone.
I told everyone my plan was to use the time to write. What they didn’t know was that I hadn’t finished a song in almost half a year. Secretly, I was petrified. I knew this trip would be a test of my will, and focus. The house was amazing, but most of my memories included booze-filled trips home from college, a suitcase stacked with books I never touched, for the papers I never wrote. Instead of studying, I’d go clubbing or watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns all day, only emerging from my room to grab stacks of Oreos.
To me, the house (and it’s endless supply of liquor and carbs) was dangerous. This time, I thought, could be different.
I was almost two years sober. As far as my writing was concerned, I’d basically given up hope. So I didn’t have much to lose.
My plan was to keep it simple: I’d exercise each morning, getting out of bed early enough so that I didn’t sleep through the afternoon. I’d write and read in the afternoons, and go to AA meetings at night. I picked up heaps of fruits and vegetables right after arriving in town; avoiding the Oreos, potato chips, and ice cream. Foods that, given a bad writing session, could send me straight into a binge-spiral.
I had to set the bar low. No worrying about the album: that stress had paralyzed me up until this point. So I joined an online songwriting group with some friends from Austin.
Each week, we’d get a phrase and have to write a song that included it. The expectation being that we would scramble to put the songs together, emailing them in minutes before the deadline. That is, to say, we were expected to suck. Our first song assignment kicked off the week I got to Laredo. Sitting alone on the balcony, I pulled my old Gibson acoustic onto my lap. The one I’d bought with money scraped together from three hour brunch gig’s at family restaurant’s and glorified McDonald’s all around central Texas.
I looked down at my legal pad at the phrase for the week: “stomping through puddles”. I stumbled around on the guitar for thirty minutes, searching for a melody, and writing down lines just to scratch them out again. Woof. I thought. Useless. I took a break and headed to the shower. Then, out of nowhere, the clear image of a well-driller I’d seen along the highway popped into my head. It struck me in that quiet way that inspiration does, like a puzzle piece you know belongs, but not sure where. I jolted out of the shower, water still running, and grabbed my phone to record the idea. I dried off, went back to the balcony and made a deal with myself: this song would not be great. It probably wouldn’t even be good.
But for the first time in six months, I would finish.
Six hours later, I had.
Then, amazingly, I started another: blissed out, and completely engrossed in my guitar.
At 9pm on a Tuesday, I stood alone in my mom’s kitchen belting out lines. Alone in that house, nothing else mattered.
The producer’s criticism, my friends who were posting about selling out shows, the album that might never get finished. Nothing existed but the lines of words right in front of me. As long as I let go of everything else, I could just focus on the work: and when I let myself work, I was happy.
I got through the week without breaking any of the promises I’d made to myself: no binging, no purging, no drinking.
I never even turned on the tv. It was a tiny miracle. I was writing again.
It was 72 degrees, a bright April afternoon in South Texas.
The yard below me full and lush, with orange and purple bougambias roped around the columns that led up to her bedroom window. I’d just finished a cross-country trip down to Laredo to replace my Texas plates (apparently I’m still in denial about being a New Yorker). By the time I’d arrived in my hometown my mom was on vacation, so I decided to enjoy the house alone.
I told everyone my plan was to use the time to write. What they didn’t know was that I hadn’t finished a song in almost half a year. Secretly, I was petrified. I knew this trip would be a test of my will, and focus. The house was amazing, but most of my memories included booze-filled trips home from college, a suitcase stacked with books I never touched, for the papers I never wrote. Instead of studying, I’d go clubbing or watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns all day, only emerging from my room to grab stacks of Oreos.
To me, the house (and it’s endless supply of liquor and carbs) was dangerous. This time, I thought, could be different.
I was almost two years sober. As far as my writing was concerned, I’d basically given up hope. So I didn’t have much to lose.
My plan was to keep it simple: I’d exercise each morning, getting out of bed early enough so that I didn’t sleep through the afternoon. I’d write and read in the afternoons, and go to AA meetings at night. I picked up heaps of fruits and vegetables right after arriving in town; avoiding the Oreos, potato chips, and ice cream. Foods that, given a bad writing session, could send me straight into a binge-spiral.
I had to set the bar low. No worrying about the album: that stress had paralyzed me up until this point. So I joined an online songwriting group with some friends from Austin.
Each week, we’d get a phrase and have to write a song that included it. The expectation being that we would scramble to put the songs together, emailing them in minutes before the deadline. That is, to say, we were expected to suck. Our first song assignment kicked off the week I got to Laredo. Sitting alone on the balcony, I pulled my old Gibson acoustic onto my lap. The one I’d bought with money scraped together from three hour brunch gig’s at family restaurant’s and glorified McDonald’s all around central Texas.
I looked down at my legal pad at the phrase for the week: “stomping through puddles”. I stumbled around on the guitar for thirty minutes, searching for a melody, and writing down lines just to scratch them out again. Woof. I thought. Useless. I took a break and headed to the shower. Then, out of nowhere, the clear image of a well-driller I’d seen along the highway popped into my head. It struck me in that quiet way that inspiration does, like a puzzle piece you know belongs, but not sure where. I jolted out of the shower, water still running, and grabbed my phone to record the idea. I dried off, went back to the balcony and made a deal with myself: this song would not be great. It probably wouldn’t even be good.
But for the first time in six months, I would finish.
Six hours later, I had.
Then, amazingly, I started another: blissed out, and completely engrossed in my guitar.
At 9pm on a Tuesday, I stood alone in my mom’s kitchen belting out lines. Alone in that house, nothing else mattered.
The producer’s criticism, my friends who were posting about selling out shows, the album that might never get finished. Nothing existed but the lines of words right in front of me. As long as I let go of everything else, I could just focus on the work: and when I let myself work, I was happy.
I got through the week without breaking any of the promises I’d made to myself: no binging, no purging, no drinking.
I never even turned on the tv. It was a tiny miracle. I was writing again.