Thinking Out Loud: The Marriage Of Ideas and Time

This blog has existed and remained constant because of my desire to hunt and discuss new music. I’m a god damn beat junkie. I can’t resist the urge to grab new mixtapes and albums as soon as they drop. It’s been a rabid obsession of mine since I was on the playground rocking the Juice soundtrack on my Walkman. There’s always been a part of me that feels entirely incomplete without music. It’s my second heartbeat. Sometimes it scares me how vital it has become for my sanity. I fall asleep with melodies in my head and wake to a pulse of ideas every morning.

There’s no way I’ll ever abandon this platform for sharing exactly how I feel about the noise passing through my headphones. It’s part of who I am. The other part, and the part I struggle to share as freely, is the creative writer. Those close to me know I’ve been writing in a much larger capacity for a majority of my life. Notebooks full of Jim Carroll influenced teen poetry gave way to longer, more intense stories as soon as my life experiences would permit.

I started writing short fiction hours after my lips first tasted Jack Daniels at Franklin’s house party freshman year. That night was somewhat of an awakening. Andrew poured huge swallows of Jack into rocks glasses and set them on the cover of the hot tub, staring with the eyes of an old soul from beneath the brim of a flimsy fishing hat. I stared down at the glass as it casually sweat, wondering how the fuck it knew exactly how I felt. Indecisive. I’d taken a few sips of beer here and there. I’d smoked a little weed between naps and jump shots. I’d watched my family eat, drink, and be merry for years…but I never completely caught the bug to hammer down drinks and tear shit up.

As soon as I finished the first glass, I knew I was headed down a rabbit hole. The next morning I grabbed a pen and a marble composition book and scribbled down the tale of the country boy with the giant brown eyes who managed to fall asleep on his feet, and later in a cold shower fully dressed after a baffling encounter with a very beautiful naked sophomore.

Since that fateful and painfully cliched night of many firsts, I’ve considered writing a natural extension of me. It was simply the easiest way to bury my sentiment in metaphor and rich language without actually saying a word. The cycle was always mundane, or textbook in construct. I’d meet a girl or two, drink too much, have a falling out of which alcohol was the true culprit, pick up the pieces of my self-induced broken heart, then repeat.

It happened year after year, face after face, scenario after scenario. But it changed entirely after taking my brother to Las Vegas for his 21st birthday. I was at the tail end of a relationship that never had a chance. We drank thirty dollar Redbull & Vodka’s, ate from the shitty buffet’s, and gambled like we had money to blow. We didn’t have shit. And we still don’t.

My ex was in Vegas the same weekend we were. She and my brother share a birthday, because fuck me, that’s why. She came, saw, and conquered a city where she shouldn’t have mattered, but still stood out in any room she stepped foot in. I drank more. I threatened to toss someone off the deck of the Ghost Bar. My brother disappeared with a girl after I disappeared into the night. I wandered into neighborhoods far from the glimmer of the strip. I climbed a fence between lanes on the highway. I jumped from the second story of a parking garage because I couldn’t find the stairs. I managed to find my way back to my room bloodied up and dusty in time to take a cab to the airport. We tipped the driver with the last five dollar chip we had between us.

That morning, waiting to load with a load on, I sat on the floor near my gate with my head spinning and a pen and pad. I began the most daunting writing project of my life. Nearly five years, and 65,000 words later I stopped toying with The Electric Confessional.

I’ve sent query letters. I’ve shared it with my friends and my brother. They’ve made notes, told me how ambitious it was, and generally kissed my ass about it. I’m thankful for that feedback and I’ll value it forever, but the novel is a piece of shit. It’s void of a central idea, and loosely based on too many stories I’ve encountered along my journeys. You’ll never read it, because you don’t have to.

Instead, I’ve decided to use this platform to share bits and pieces of my creative writing alongside my music coverage. There’s never been two more meaningful things in my life, so why not marry the two? I might never share full projects because I probably won’t finish them. I’ll share shorts, excerpts, and snippets of whatever is floating around my head. I’ve got a few pages of a play. A first chapter of what could become my second book.  Plenty of short stories.

If you’ve made it to the end of this fucking terrible rant, I thank you. I appreciate you riding with me all these years. If you see something you like, or have suggestions or comments on the creative shit I post in the future, leave them for discussion. There’s nothing more important to the process than creative criticism, and it’s about time I welcome that.

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