I kept my word, for about the first time ever, and I came in on the weekend.
Yesterday was physio and cake and doner meat and chips and The Killing…
And now I’m on 50 songs. I suppose I could stop now and still have more than enough to sift through and construct into some kind of album that humans might enjoy listening to. But I won’t. Because I said I’d do 100.
Granted, there is a time to swallow your pride, and to admit that you bit off more than you could chew. But there’s also a time to keep pride swirling around your gums, and carry on with what you started.
I’m going to write 50 more.
I posted a photo of a blank page to Instagram today, and made some kind of quip about how, to a writer, the blank page is more frightening than a pending pregnancy test.
I was trying to lighten my mood — I had just sat down, guitar on my lap, pen in my hand, and thought “oh fuck, what now?”
I was afraid, but I didn’t need to be. Writing these first 50 songs has demonstrated to me that you really just need to do one thing — attempt to introduce your pen and your page to one another. That’s all.
And what I’ve noticed is that so long as you do that, something bigger than you will invariably kick and start doing the work.
I’ve never been so convinced that the Oliver Manning part of this equation is nothing more than a dumb vessel for something bigger and better to do something in the earthly realm.
And that’s not to put Manning down — we need Manning. But he’s not running the show. Nor will we ever let him.
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