MY GREATEST HITS: ONE MILLION Clicks From STARDOM

Dreaming, circa 1990

Why do I write? Why do we create? That might be a stupid question. We probably write to answer that question. What I am sure of is: art creates a bridge between strangers to help prove we’re not actually strangers at all. We're stubbornly, collectively, occasionally wonderfully human.

A friend once told me: “Anybody over 50 still writing songs has a mental illness.” If he was actually referring specifically to me, he's quite right, to quote Supertramp. Part of it is 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, and missing what can never be again. “Little Dreamer” is about sailing on despite rocks in the water, cheering on my fellow humans, in a wrapped up in a blanket kind of way. “Shine” is about trying to let go with grace, hopefully with a hint of Motowm. “The Woman I Love is Crazy” is about projecting my own craziness onto someone else (and some lovers actually are crazy). “Stay With Me” is about a kid in his twenties who couldn’t be vulnerable enough to say what his heart (and body) needed.

I’ve written about my mental suffering, for sure. “Waiting” is about waiting for depression to lift. And anxiety, to be fully honest. “Yeah” is about rising from that wave. “Be Brave Tonight” is about staring that shit down but not doing something tragic. It's a song to encourage the onwards push, to believe in this journey, 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. It was hard to finish. What kept me going? Not an advance, that's for sure. An eagerly awaiting fan base? Hardly.

The actual kids in the story. I felt for their need and hope to be heard. To be encouraged. To be injected with courage.

I came to adore them. They believe in things I till believe in: friendship, positivity, courage, honesty—and being a sarcastic goofball. Their resilience inspired me to be resilient enough to finish. I could hear them yelling from the creative abyss (also known, in the book, as the Southern Rubble): "Shut up and rewrite!"

I'm not kidding. They really called out to me. How fortunate is it to hear that?

What else am I looking for in the creative 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, an original melody that hints at who we are or who we could be; a musical 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. And 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.