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My kids would have starved
June 19, 2012 | 11:30 pm
So that proves I would never be able to compose for a living
We all compose in our own way. Some on sheet music (before DAWs, anyhow), some sitting at the piano or with the guitar, some for two hours more or less every day for a month, some over three nights and the two days in between before collapsing utterly. Some even compose on stage, where it's called improvisation, which is awesome.
I'm 45 years old and, having lived with myself the entire time, know myself pretty well. This is how I compose:
There were three months back there where I hardly stepped away from the keyboard. And every day I was away I thought about what I was going to do when I got back. And every four days or so another incredible song opportunity zapped into my head. I couldn't keep up, honestly. But it was fun trying.
Then, like a switch it turned off. For the past three months or so each minute at the keyboard became a chore, an obligation. My lovely muse, full of flattery and inspiration, turned into a bad tempered mule who bit and passed gas and ate out of our garden. This was the opposite of fun. I took a break.
I'm here to report: The muse isn't back but the mule's gone. Good riddance.
Mark
June 19, 2012 | 11:30 pm
So that proves I would never be able to compose for a living
We all compose in our own way. Some on sheet music (before DAWs, anyhow), some sitting at the piano or with the guitar, some for two hours more or less every day for a month, some over three nights and the two days in between before collapsing utterly. Some even compose on stage, where it's called improvisation, which is awesome.
I'm 45 years old and, having lived with myself the entire time, know myself pretty well. This is how I compose:
There were three months back there where I hardly stepped away from the keyboard. And every day I was away I thought about what I was going to do when I got back. And every four days or so another incredible song opportunity zapped into my head. I couldn't keep up, honestly. But it was fun trying.
Then, like a switch it turned off. For the past three months or so each minute at the keyboard became a chore, an obligation. My lovely muse, full of flattery and inspiration, turned into a bad tempered mule who bit and passed gas and ate out of our garden. This was the opposite of fun. I took a break.
I'm here to report: The muse isn't back but the mule's gone. Good riddance.
Mark
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