My life is filled with music. Some of my earliest memories have music: sitting in my diaper listening to my brothers and sisters play over and over again the album Meet The Beatles; losing my virginity with Supertramp’s The Crime of the Century as the soundtrack; I remember being stunned the first time I heard U2’s debut Boy; and how I stopped the car in traffic and pulled over to weep over Henryk Mikołaj Górecki’s Symphony No. 36. I sobered up with Van Morrison and spend every day with some kind of musical accompaniment. And I do play a musical instrument, albeit an unconventional one: a fountain pen.
I write with music and compose whereby truth conforms to music. Let me unpack this. When I write I have music playing — mostly music without lyrics in order to tamp down any distraction — and I write with my ear, for the way the composition sings.
Every piece of writing there is another piece of writing, one that we never write. Meanwhile, there is the one that is sung.
Music and writing for me, together always.