I suck. I just haven’t been able to write lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me; usually the words just flow. But instead, I typically sit idle in my batcave of an apartment, trying to elevate my guitar playing from the rudimentary to something more complex and tantalizing. I’m not sure I even know why I do it, because 56-year-old white-guy singer-songwriters aren’t exactly the rage on the local club circuit, especially if they come with that dynamite cocktail of performer’s insecurity and entitled butthurt that I’m guessing I must be projecting to the bookers.
Which is sad, because I have a number of pieces composed in my head. I just have to write them, and hope that I haven’t lost my touch. But fuck that; I know what I’m doing. I had a nice long conversation with my first serious girlfriend today; she lives in Minnesota now, where one of them deer ticks bit her and laid her up with a gnarly case of Lyme disease. Anyway, we were discussing this whole business of writing or making music or creating, and how we can’t expect others to validate what we’re doing to give us the strength to go on (although it’s pretty nice whenever it happens), and I had one of them cartoon-light-bulb-over-the-head moments: What separates the true artist from the rest of humanity is that the true artist doesn’t need other people to tell them they’re on the right track. The true artist already knows.
There’s your nugget of pondering for today. —Jackson Griffith