it's easy to forget that the making of the music is actually the easiest part about being a musician. we cry and throw things and drink and smoke and kill ourselves to have something to write about, but the hard part isn't the writing. the hard part is getting people to listen to you. which is why i'm now spending 4 hours a day stuffing envelopes, and spending $15 a day in postage, and spending 2 hours a day on myspace... and less and less time writing.
it sounds sad, right? it sounds like i'm turning my focus away from being an artist, and instead, becoming my own office assistant. my brain is filled with questions like, "is my letterhead too whispy and fairy-like?" and "why are there so many zip codes for providence?". it's also slighty depressing to be sitting alone in front of my computer printing cover letter after cover letter and wondering if there exists anyone else in the world who cares if this record gets listened to.
i suppose that what really matters is that
i do,
i care if people listen to my record. i worked damn hard on it, and i'm proud of the way it sounds. i went into debt because of it, and now have restricted my food purchases to canned tuna, boxes of pasta, and cheese. my friends killed themselves night and day to get the songs recorded, and donated their time, money, and equipment to make this record sound the best that it could. and i work my little tail off now so that they can get the recognition that they deserve.
i have hit that point, though, when you wonder if you should ask for help because no one has offered yet. not that they should, people are busy, and this is
my record, after all. but it gets lonely stuffing envelopes by yourself, and mindless tasks usually lead to a wandering mind. it's easy to overanalyze things when you have a lot of time to think, and overanalyzing things makes it very easy to feel bad for yourself. i've felt that recently i may have started to plummet into that hole of self doubt and comparison, a hole that i've found, is very nearly impossible to climb out of.
what do i do in that place? down in the muddy, damp hole of self loathing? i fester for awhile. i convince myself that i'm going mental and that all off my feelings are unjustified figments of my imagination. then i call my out-of-town closest friends who i
know will make me feel better (if not permanently, then at least for the hour their voice is stuck to my ear). one of my best friends did just that for me the other day. she said, "you're not feeling this way for no reason." immediately i felt more sane, less alone, and was able to make conversation about something other than my current obsessive trauma.
but now, two days later, i go over her sentence again and again in my head. while it did comfort me, i now see it as a push to take action, and that maybe the action i need to take is outside of myself. if i'm hurt that my friends haven't offered to continue to be a part of the record they worked so hard on, should i not tell them? it is, of course, a delicate situation to say the least, and i know that i'm afraid they'll take offense when i try to discuss it. but nothing will change if they don't know that i'm hurt.
as i write this, i again feel myself getting nervous that i'm blowing things out of proportion, and completely eggagerating my friends seemingly disinterested attitude. unfortunately, there's no way i can be sure that my feelings are justified until i talk to the people i'm feeling them toward. i suppose now i've answered by own questions, but going about a confrontation is something i always feel unprepared for, no matter how hard i think about it.
existence is a risky business. i suppose that my greatest fear in this situation is losing my friends because it turns out that yes, i am being unbelievably selfish in wishing that people were taking as active of a interest in my music as they do with other singer/songwriters that they play with. maybe i am being greedy. it's easy to.
for now, i'll continue stuffing my own envelopes until the time is right to explode all over everyone i know and disappear under a bush like a balloon you blow up and then let go of.
