The writer’s life
I received this from my longtime friend and former musical partner Pat Flynn and as he noted, it pertains to musicians, writers and anyone whose life is about creative endeavors:
“Singers and Musicians are some of the most driven, courageous people on the face of the earth. They deal with more day-to-day rejection in one year than most people do in a lifetime. Every day, they face the financial challenge of living a freelance lifestyle, the disrespect of people who think they should get real jobs, and their own fear that they’ll never work again. Every day, they have to ignore the possibility that the vision they have dedicated their lives to is a pipe dream. With every note, they stretch themselves, emotionally and physically, risking criticism and judgment. With every passing year, many of them watch as the other people their age achieve the predictable milestones of normal life — the car, the family, the house, the nest egg. Why? Because musicians and singers are willing to give their entire lives to a moment — to that melody, that lyric, that chord, or that interpretation that will stir the audience’s soul. Singers and Musicians are beings who have tasted life’s nectar in that crystal moment when they poured out their creative spirit and touched another’s heart. In that instant, they were as close to magic, God, and perfection as anyone could ever be. And in their own hearts, they know that to dedicate oneself to that moment is worth a thousand lifetimes.” — David Ackert, LA Times
I don’t want to veer off into self-aggrandizement, but for all the hardships writers endure, from time to time it is good to remember the important function we play within our social context. We experience that which touches another’s heart, then find the words to convey that to an audience.
That, my friends, is a rare gift.
I am reminded of one of my favorite children’s books: “Frederick” by Leo Lionni. Here is the text:
All along the meadow where the cows grazed and the horses ran, there was an old stone wall. In that wall, not far from the barn and the granary, a chatty family of field mice had their home. But the farmers had moved away, the barn was abandoned and the granary stood empty. And since winter was not far off, the little mice began to gather corn and nuts and wheat and straw. They all worked day and night….. all except Frederick.
“Frederick why don’t you work?” they asked.
“I do work,” said Frederick. “I gather sun rays for the cold, dark winter days.”
And when they saw Frederick sitting there staring at the meadow, they said “and now Frederick?”
“I gather colors,” answered Frederick simply, “for winter is grey.”
And once, Frederick seemed half asleep. “Are you dreaming Frederick?” they asked reproachfully.
But Frederick said “Oh no, I’m gathering words, for the winter days are long and many.”
The winter days came and when the first snow fell the five little field mice took to their hideout in the stones. In the beginning, there was lots to eat and the mice told stories of foolish foxes and silly cats. They were a happy family. But little by little they had nibbled up most of the nuts and berries. The straw was gone and the corn was only a memory. It was cold in the wall and no one felt like chatting.
Then they remembered what Frederick had said about the sun rays and colors and words. “What about your supplies, Frederick?” they asked. “Close your eyes,” said Frederick. “Now I send you the rays of the sun. Do you feel how their golden glow….” And as Frederick spoke of the sun, the four little mice began to feel warmer. Was it Frederick’s voice? Was it magic?
“And how about the colors, Frederick?” they asked anxiously. “Close your eyes again,” Frederick said. And when he told them of the blue perriwinkles, the red poppies and the yellow wheat and the green leaves of the berry bush — they saw the colors as clearly as if they’d been painted in their minds.
“And the words, Frederick?” Frederick cleared his throat and then as if from a stage, he said, “Who scatters snowflakes? Who melts the ice?
Who spoils the weather? Who makes it nice?
Who grows the four-leaf clovers in June?
Who dims the daylight? Who lights the Moon?
Four little mice who live in the sky, four little field mice like you and I.
Spring is first with April showers, summer next with fragrant flowers.
Then comes fall with nuts and wheat, and winter last with chilly feet.
Aren’t we lucky the seasons are four?
Think of a year with one less, or one more.
They cheered, “But Frederick,” they said, “You’re a poet!”
Frederick blushed, took a bow and said shyly “ I know it.”
Here is a video of the story:
This goes out to writers everywhere. May you be in touch with your inner Frederick. May you dedicate yourself to experiencing and writing about a moment that is worth a thousand lifetimes.