With regards to chasing the Yankee dollar, I need to shift my modus operandi. Busking, in its traditional outside-Mothercare sense, will soon cease to suffice. It’s going to get cold, and I’m going to get bitter inside, and I need time to record the album.
But that’s okay — I just have to get creative. Which is apparently, given my line of work, exactly what I am.
In truth, I’ve forgotten all about today’s five songs. I don’t care how good or bad they were. That happens a little bit more every day. It’s like doing bicep curls for the ego.
I have just seven more sessions left in this first-draft campaign. As I’ve go on, the sessions are becoming ever more brief. The time between starting to write the song and latching onto that point where the song presents itself to me has shortened.
That has been the most rewarding part of the whole experience. Let’s presume for a second that these songs exist in some kind of metaphysical sense, in some eternity somewhere in the clouds, and that they’re just waiting for a human like me to write them.
Writing the first line, your glasses are blurry. They’re caked in shit and grime and disease. You can’t see a damn thing. Then you write the second line, if only to keep the first company, and the picture is ever so slightly clearer. I’m talking 98% shit instead of 99%.
And you keep writing, and the song begins to write itself.
CAVEAT: I do not for a second mean that I’m sitting there not doing anything and not struggling and not second guessing, whilst a song waltz by onto my page. I just mean that I’m no longer sitting there throwing random, disjointed lines at the page with my Uniball — something is nudging me towards certain things and away from certain others.
To whoever or whatever is doing that, I have eternal gratitude.
And I think you really just have to stay with this process for a long enough time until you can say, yep, that is the song that was trying to be written, and I did my best to write it.
And then you’re done, right? Nope. Then you have to record it. Oh, God…