Process

I half-heartedly regret to inform you that the renowned spider in yesterday's post has moved away. After Michael saw my documentary, he couldn't get over the fact that there was a spider that large just minding its own business in the backyard. He began to campaign me for ways to get rid of it, and now that it's gone, he feels like he hurt its spider feelings.

Spider. Feelings.

Now that we're talking about feelings, I FEEL like this would be a good opportunity to tell you that I am now struggling in my once-acclaimed "gift" of songwriting.
I can't really put a finger on when I stopped being able to write good songs. I would sit down to play guitar and maybe write a new song, but nothing came to mind. Then I overplayed the stuff I had written, and eventually lost interest in it because nothing was ever new.

And now I'm having that artist-like-Bright-Eyes moment where I question if anything I do is actually good or if it's a waste of paint.
Of tape.
Of time.

Then I thought back to when I first started playing guitar OVER 10 YEARS AGO. OH MY GOSH I'M OLD and it's because I wrote in a journal like every single day.
Yeah, it was mostly about boys (or, boy), random pictures and quotes, and how much better I was than everyone I encountered, but hey at least it was honest.
The original "True Story".

Writing at that age was an amazing thing. It was how I made sense of life and people and things. It was an escape. It was a way to devise, make plans, and illustrate people's faces that annoyed me. Instead of channeling all my teenage angst into better and mature adult decision-making, I vomited it all over the pages of more than four 250 page spiral bound notebooks.

And then what did I do?

I turned them into song.

I know, I know. Seems cliche and very Harriet-the-Spy-meets-Taking-Back-Sunday.
And in a way it kind of was, but it was the only way I could be myself around other people.

Here is a huge lie that teenagers are told: "Just be yourself, and people will like you for who you are."
Nope.
Absolutely untrue.
Falsehood.
Right there.
Damnable lie.

That only applies AFTER high school.
In high school, you really don't know who you are. So how do you know who to be?

I see now that I was a girl that cared way too much about what people thought.
My music was a way to tell people what I thought without having to say it to their face, and I found so much comfort in that.
I could be honest without being judged.
That's, like, a teenager's dream right there.

So wrote songs I did. Yes, plenty of songs.
Some worse than others, and some better.
I'm looking in one of my old books right now and I see I wrote at the top of a page, "This is the best song I have ever written."
Oh, how many times would I say that in the next 10 years? (more than I care to count)

Sometimes you just have to pull out the old nostalgia to bring you some inspiration.

I thought maybe my key to good song-writing, or maybe just song-writing, could be found in writing more and more. It doesn't matter what I'd write about: what kind of soup I had today, how the clouds look, a character sketch of my coworker, how kitty Sam is.

Just putting pen to paper makes me feel more like who I am supposed to be.
"Allie, you're so emo and hipster."
Really?
REALLY?
R.E.A.L.L.Y.

Writing more has helped me get back to guitar playing, and not hating my worn out songs so much.
A lot of times, I think "This would be so much better in a band." or "this could use some harmony".
But mostly, it's just me having an Emily of New Moon moment.

And since none of you have actually taken the time to read my favorite book by L.M. Montgomery, I shall explain to you the scene to which I am referring.

It's at the end of the first book, and her teacher, Mr. Carpenter, is going through her bits of poetry, throwing out most of it, saying it's cliche, trite, overdone, and belaboring.
But every now and then, he finds a good line. Emily's whole dream is to be a writer, and though the bulk of her work in that moment is being deemed not good, she's inspired by the small portion that someone else thinks is good.

In my situation, I am both Mr. Carpenter and Emily as I find little bits of verses, both old and recent, that still sound so good to me. They haunt a deep 14-year old bone in me, and they make me feel like I'm not so bad after all:

I will miss you more than I can say. Words aren't the only thing I've lost.
Already

I was your outside conscience; you'd talk to yourself, but I'd listen.
I'd be careful not to mistake it for trust
Because to depend on words you say, depend on you I must.
After Tomorrow

You drove me home that night, and you told me everything.
So I thought I saw inside; I thought I had you figured out.
And you would be mine- it would only take time.
But you said, 'Not now.' Of course you would.
Of Course You Would

There were things we didn't know.
We tied our hearts to balloons, and we let them go.
Square

I never saw your point of view like I should.
That's probably why your shoe never fit my foot.
Size 7

You've been gone for weeks now
And no tears stain my cheeks now
I only miss you when you're around
So I'm not missing you at all
Why Should I

A slow dance, take it apart
I know this melody by heart
I hear the notes, simple beat, simple beat
I'm just waiting for a harmony
I've got time
All I Have

Does she like sunrises better than sunsets
Because the beginning is so much better than the end
Doppleganger

We were separate but equal, painting our losses on our own easels
I'm still struggling; it was easier when you were alone
Moving On

I was the girl you'd talk to in the mornings while you were half awake
I was the girl you'd run into the hallways by mistake
Time

Someday we'll grow up, and we'll live up to all that we said
Like "I'm gonna be a famous singer" and "I'm gonna live 'til I'm a hundred."
Someday

You're the one bad habit I haven't broken yet
And if lungs are hearts than you're my cigarette.
Heart Disease

Streetlights go by in flashes
Tears bead up on my eyelashes
And I, I held it in all through the night
Did I make you move, did I make you move, did I make you
Three Small Words

Let's watch the fireworks from our apartment deck
Let's ring in the new year in complete silence...
You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders all the time
But relax, you're not Atlas, you're Michael, and you're mine
Michael

"If it's in you to climb, you must,"
Mr. Carpenter
TWS