MY GREATEST HITS: ONE MILLION Clicks From STARDOM

Dreaming, circa 1990

Why do I write? Why do we create? A vast question. We even write to answer that question. What I am sure of is: art creates a bridge between strangers because we’re not actually strangers at all. We're stubbornly, collectively, sometimes wonderfully human.

A friend once told me: “Anybody over 50 still writing songs has a mental illness.” He might be right. Maybe it’s neurotic compulsion. But maybe what appears to be madness is actually devotion.

This human has written songs for decades. I marvel at how the person I used to be, excited and lost in writing—and just plain lost—is still here with me, right now in the warm light of this Vancouver morning, thinking about songs.

I’ve spent my adult life chasing songs I hope are beautiful—an elastic, subjective word—while staying true in sound, and honest in my lyrics; psychologically, politically, sexually, spiritually. 

“A Different Kind of Freedom” is a recent song about being a dad today, reflecting on being a kid in the ‘70s. “Little Dreamer” is about sailing on despite rocks in the water. “Shine” is about trying to let go with grace. “The Woman I Love is Crazy” is about projecting my own craziness onto someone else. “Stay With Me” is about a kid in his twenties who couldn’t be vulnerable enough to say what his heart needed.

I’ve written about my mental suffering, for sure. “Waiting” is about waiting for depression to lift. “Yeah” is about rising from it. “Be Brave Tonight” is about staring it down and not doing something tragic. It's a song to encourage push onwards, to believe, to comfort tragic impulses.

There’s a physical thrill in the flow of zeroing in on the ideal chord progression, and matching the right word or syllable with the right melodic phrase. When the alchemy creates something that didn't exist, it’s invigorating. It’s bliss. It feels like magic. The same high I feel when fine tuning a scene in a documentary, or chiseling a paragraph in a novel. 

I’ve just finished my third novel: My Last Friends on Earth. Might be my last novel on Earth. Who knows? It was hard to finish. What kept me going? Not an advance. An eagerly awaiting fan base? Hardly.

The kids in the story. That's what.

I came to adore them. They believe in friendship, positivity, courage, and honesty. Their resilience inspired me to be resilient enough to finish. I could hear them: "Shut up and rewrite!" I'm not kidding. How fortunate is that?

What else am I looking for in the journey? Something—when I sing it or read it—I believe in. Hope. Redemption. Love. Desire. Sadness. Connection. That's not about talent. We can all do that for ourselves. A word, a line, a melody that hints at who we are or who we could be; a bridge that reminds us we are walking this journey together, across a river that we know flows so far away, the bridge becomes, at best, a footnote—if we're lucky. But we're still lucky to have crossed it. 

Is it enough to write, if nobody hears or reads the result? Sometimes it has to be. You can't pay someone to love you, though paying for promotion has proved effective from time to time.

Sometimes the bridge we cross leads to a bigger bridge. Strangers have told me Understanding Ken is their favourite novel; Facing Ali their favourite documentary; The Woman I Love Is Crazy their favourite song. When it happens? It’s shocking. Also thrilling. 

Too much praise might make an artist lose her mind; too little probably does the same. In the end, you accept either, or both, and carry on, word by word, dream by dream.

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Press play and may you find a bridge, a wave, or even that eternal spark in yourself. I was going for that.

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Check my youtube channel to see videos for a few of these songs.