9/1/19: I prefer the dry heat of the desert of Central Washington, not far from where I was born (in Eastern WA), to the humidity of Hawaii, where I grew up. My tour-mates and I are at our last stop on our summer tour: an RV resort in the Tri-Cities. Rachel Chuganey and I performed at the Tumbleweed Music Festival yesterday, and today is our first day off together, along with her husband and my son. Everyone set out to relax today, but predictably, I quickly started working on a project: a new tune.
It was an involuntary reflex, picking up my pen and journal, and then my guitar. Sometimes I don't know which instrument to choose first when I'm working out a new song, but my ukulele busted a string at the festival yesterday, and my auto-harp is sleeping at home, back in Portland, next to my bass. My guitar is the only available tool, but it will do just fine.
It had been thirteen months since I had written a song. I will chalk up the break in my dry spell to several contributing factors:
I have been working on a novel for a couple of years. I hope to finish it this year. It's been an intoxicating adventure, writing a novel, or having one write me, which is often how it feels. I fear that writing prose might be usurping my ability to write new songs, which at least at this point is more my bread and butter. Or to be more accurate, it's a bigger slice of the pie that reflects how I make up different ways to bring home the bacon.
Another reason to blame for this creative drought could be that I haven't been in a relationship for quite some time. It's been so long since I have had a muse, but I think I might've stumbled upon a spry one recently.
My phone is currently broken, making it more of a challenge to waste time on Facebook. So I know that that plays a part. As does this final contributor: I work all the time on booking shows for myself, the other artists I represent through my booking label, plus I work most days in an office, doing social work. I am also the mother of an active six-year-old. So it comes as no surprise that on the first day in a while that there isn't any work on the agenda and my child is fully engrossed in Minecraft, a song has begun to whisper its lyrics to me; and yet it feels purely like magic.
We have experienced other forms of magic along the way: the alchemy of new friendships formed at our Portland and Seattle shows; the blessings of free food in green rooms and unlimited drinks in cider houses and breweries; the good fortune of having a friend to eat with in Salem, and family who could provide child care for my son; the conjuring of fans, old and new, at our Hood River and Tri-Cities shows. Plus I dined on the succulent arms of a seared Octopus (so stop calling me vegan!) and found a wild dance party at a lesbian bar in Seattle. Portland, supposedly the Lesbian capitol of the country, fails to deliver such delights.
Now I am watching my son and my friends swim as the sun begins to set in Richland and sipping chardonnay. When I get home tomorrow, I'll see the woman who inspired me to write, and she'll come baring a dairy- and gluten-free meal that we can share. Life is pretty sweet.
