I was driving and the break between songs had a voice clip of one of the artists regularly featured on the station who said, "A recording is just what the song sounds like ON THAT DAY." And I wish I could remember the name of the person to whom those words belong to give them credit.
To expound: The studio recording of a song is the sound captured by the machines and equipment at the moment. How many times did the artist sing those same words before it was enough and wrapped up that day? To hear a live performance varies from the recording. I've heard same song, same artist, difference lyrics and music during live shows. Music is alive in that way. Live performance, stage, art - even our personal stories shared with one another gain or lose detail with every telling.
I reflected upon this notion of ON THAT DAY as I drove and flipped through the stations to get to one who played recordings of live (non-studio) performances, reinforcing the words and understanding the depth of emotion behind those three words. ON THAT DAY.
I haven't announced yet publicly that I have registered to be an author/vendor at a book festival this coming fall. I have a list of things to get together for a booth and I lie to myself, using the word distraction when what I really am letting fester is procrastination. It's a procrastination laden with fear. Fear that the book is not right. That there are words I've forgotten. That there are pieces of the tale somewhere betwixt my brain and fingers that I know to be obvious, but have not been laid upon a page.
I know this concept that there is a moment one must choose to say, "this is it. this is complete." But how often have I read something or heard something and thought, another word would have been better- would have been perfect - how could that writer have missed it? What if I'm missing something?
The book is done. It is finished. It's been written and rewritten seven times. I want one more change, but i don't want to go through another revision. And honestly, I'm stressing over the decision to not revise again. What if I am missing that one word or passage that will make it better? Complete? Clear?
Yesterday I went bug hunting for these 17 year cicadas. It was incredible. I went at the perfect moment. As I was approaching the park in which they were said to have been spotted, the air buzzed with a mesmerizing hum. When reaching the park, the bugs were everywhere. Not so much that they were overwhelming, but so many, that I saw every tiny bit of their tiny bodies. In tromping through, I found a tree I sat upon and looked into murky creek water while the wailing and buzz of these critters played in my ears. There were dragonflies and damselflies and butterflies I had never known to exist. Colorful spiders and giant ants - all out so that I could look upon them. It was the perfect moment to see what I saw. It was the park, ON THAT DAY.
This morning, I awoke to a quote from Bukowski - "People are strange. They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice." - Charles Bukowski.
I do walk around with anger loaded in the double barrel shot gun, with a hair trigger that is my chest, awaiting any absurd or mundane action to give rise to the blinding red, uncontrollable once unleashed. But have I wasted a moment? Ha! - Probably wasted a whole bunch of moments. But TOTALly wasting my life? Negative.
Today I am writing. I am not marking off any of the checklist items for the book festival. I have a list and it's a matter of ordering things like postcards and printed copies of my book. (making displays for ancillary materials - ugh.) But, I'm not doing that today. And more importantly, I'm going to let the book rest now as it is - The recording of the words ON THAT DAY that I sent the copy for print. I'm not going to live in the anger (toward myself) that it's not perfect. Nor the fear (of others) that it could be better. I'm taking a breath and working on another. - I have so many unfinished, I have to get on with it!
I've been sick. I've been busy. I've been lazy. I've been grieving. I've been lazy.
So I opened some old projects (intending to work on one and pulling up another) and I found a story that I thought I had much more written than is on the page. I spent quite a long time looking through files to see if there was another version with the writing I remembered - and while I was becoming angry with myself for not being more organized. Not being more diligent with making this writing that I do a successful part of my life - I thought about both the Bukowski quote to which I awoke, as well as the musician's words. And, I'm conceding to my thoughts that I may have written a perfect passage in days past, but ON THIS DAY, I cannot waste any of my minutes searching out something that may or may exist outside of that space betwixt my brain and fingers, and I just need to record the words of this day.
To expound: The studio recording of a song is the sound captured by the machines and equipment at the moment. How many times did the artist sing those same words before it was enough and wrapped up that day? To hear a live performance varies from the recording. I've heard same song, same artist, difference lyrics and music during live shows. Music is alive in that way. Live performance, stage, art - even our personal stories shared with one another gain or lose detail with every telling.
I reflected upon this notion of ON THAT DAY as I drove and flipped through the stations to get to one who played recordings of live (non-studio) performances, reinforcing the words and understanding the depth of emotion behind those three words. ON THAT DAY.
I haven't announced yet publicly that I have registered to be an author/vendor at a book festival this coming fall. I have a list of things to get together for a booth and I lie to myself, using the word distraction when what I really am letting fester is procrastination. It's a procrastination laden with fear. Fear that the book is not right. That there are words I've forgotten. That there are pieces of the tale somewhere betwixt my brain and fingers that I know to be obvious, but have not been laid upon a page.
I know this concept that there is a moment one must choose to say, "this is it. this is complete." But how often have I read something or heard something and thought, another word would have been better- would have been perfect - how could that writer have missed it? What if I'm missing something?
The book is done. It is finished. It's been written and rewritten seven times. I want one more change, but i don't want to go through another revision. And honestly, I'm stressing over the decision to not revise again. What if I am missing that one word or passage that will make it better? Complete? Clear?
Yesterday I went bug hunting for these 17 year cicadas. It was incredible. I went at the perfect moment. As I was approaching the park in which they were said to have been spotted, the air buzzed with a mesmerizing hum. When reaching the park, the bugs were everywhere. Not so much that they were overwhelming, but so many, that I saw every tiny bit of their tiny bodies. In tromping through, I found a tree I sat upon and looked into murky creek water while the wailing and buzz of these critters played in my ears. There were dragonflies and damselflies and butterflies I had never known to exist. Colorful spiders and giant ants - all out so that I could look upon them. It was the perfect moment to see what I saw. It was the park, ON THAT DAY.
This morning, I awoke to a quote from Bukowski - "People are strange. They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice." - Charles Bukowski.
I do walk around with anger loaded in the double barrel shot gun, with a hair trigger that is my chest, awaiting any absurd or mundane action to give rise to the blinding red, uncontrollable once unleashed. But have I wasted a moment? Ha! - Probably wasted a whole bunch of moments. But TOTALly wasting my life? Negative.
Today I am writing. I am not marking off any of the checklist items for the book festival. I have a list and it's a matter of ordering things like postcards and printed copies of my book. (making displays for ancillary materials - ugh.) But, I'm not doing that today. And more importantly, I'm going to let the book rest now as it is - The recording of the words ON THAT DAY that I sent the copy for print. I'm not going to live in the anger (toward myself) that it's not perfect. Nor the fear (of others) that it could be better. I'm taking a breath and working on another. - I have so many unfinished, I have to get on with it!
I've been sick. I've been busy. I've been lazy. I've been grieving. I've been lazy.
So I opened some old projects (intending to work on one and pulling up another) and I found a story that I thought I had much more written than is on the page. I spent quite a long time looking through files to see if there was another version with the writing I remembered - and while I was becoming angry with myself for not being more organized. Not being more diligent with making this writing that I do a successful part of my life - I thought about both the Bukowski quote to which I awoke, as well as the musician's words. And, I'm conceding to my thoughts that I may have written a perfect passage in days past, but ON THIS DAY, I cannot waste any of my minutes searching out something that may or may exist outside of that space betwixt my brain and fingers, and I just need to record the words of this day.
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