To paraphrase, philosopher and novelist Ayn Rand explains her passion for writing in terms of her desire to convince the ordinary reader that men are inherently good, especially when they are allowed the space and luxury to be good. I wish my aspirations were as noble.
I write when in fact I’d rather be singing. I write with a passion that is lost on the timidity of my vocal chords. I sing softly; but I write with a great deal of volume. And, I am less concerned with judgment when pen and paper are my voice.
My relationship with the song within me has been tumultuous at best; deeply influenced by the perception and opinion of others. So much so that, in the 9th grade, under the influence of a music teacher whose expertise I valued and respected, I gave up on the power of my own voice for the first of many times. In the more than thirty years since, my voice guilts me into the occasional performance, allows me a few accolades for my cooperation, only to experience my swift desertion from the gift and talent of which I am quite aware.
Despite my inward battles to give music its proper place in my life, it has been a faithful companion, most times waiting patiently for me to meet it in the necessary corners of my life. And I miss singing more and more each day. As I explained to a friend recently, nothing or no one that comes in and out of your life the way music revolves in and out of mine is arbitrary; and at some point those persons or things must be invited into your life…to stay.
My challenge now is to make room for my song and give it a reliable place in my existence. I’ll keep you posted.