I both do and don't enjoy tooting my own horn. The anxious inner critic I'll name (using a random villain name generator, that for some reason I've chosen to be British, and most like a lion, that was also born in 1984) James “Jimmy” Howells likes to remind me that anything I think I do well is because I'm actually really stupid and incapable of recognizing true talent. Battling on my behalf, an inner costumed hero fights Jimmy in the streets and does a decent enough job at sending him packing by telling me in a calm and borderline patronizing manner than I am pretty alright at this, and that Jimmy Howells is just a fucking dick.
Of course the saddest reality is that I am Jimmy, tearing myself down, as well as the patronizing, unnamed costumed hero, giving only enough effort to just barely placate my fears of being awful. And with that, I'm increasingly positive that I exhibit some really interesting mental chaos that would be worthy of further discussion with my therapist.
“No you don't,” said Jimmy.
“Eh you probably do, but maybe he's right,” said my hero.
For what feels like decades I've had the notion that I could become an accomplished writer, or at least write things that people enjoy, and maybe be able to get paid for it in some form. It's really one of the few attainable “shoot for the stars” goals I've ever let myself have. There are plenty of things I've excelled at in my life, but writing is one of the few that I've ever felt I do pretty well. Selfishly, I do it for my own therapeutic reasons, but unselfishly, I've learned from feedback from people close to me that what I end up writing can make them laugh, or understand and take on a different perspective, and that they can reconcile something about themselves after it. This is the best case scenario, of course.
But among millions of published books finding their way into the zeitgeist of literature, it becomes really fucking daunting to try to pull off. Like where does one even begin? I'll tell you where I thought I'd begin, and why I'm not there anymore, and why I might go back to it in time. To do so we need to travel to a distant past, November-ish of last year.
Actually, let's go back a bit further to September 2021.
I had what would be adequately described as a severe mental breakdown. It came as I was feeling stressors at work, but also a profound amount of growth and productivity. My career as a developer was in its second year and moving forward wonderfully. I'd been tasked with suitable pieces of work and delivered on them with measurably high impact. The idea of burning out had entered into my lexicon, but I never felt like I was near that point, only “busy”. I still mostly believe that to be true, but I think my memory is distorting the reality of how I felt at that time, now that we're a year and a half beyond that. What ultimately ended up setting me off was an innocuous conversation in therapy on a Tuesday morning, and it wasn't until I was driving home that I realized I'd been crying for a while. When I made it home and stumbled through the briefest of conversations with my partner I effectively broke. I didn't return to work for the remainder of the year.
During that time I worked a lot on myself, found my way to some antidepressants, and recognized the joy that building Lego sets could offer me in my distressing times. And while I'd had other breakdowns in the past, this one hit differently, because I felt like I had the support around me to grow and learn from it, not just endure and move on. (Not that I didn't have that previously, but this time I recognized that it was there and utilized it.)
Moving into 2022 with what I hoped was a good head on my shoulders, a toolbox freshly dusted off, and better understanding of my own reactions and limitations, I was excited to continue my own growth. I found myself more emotionally intelligent, compassionate, and available to others as they needed it. I took on new challenges at work with renewed vigor and interest in moving my career forward. I continued therapy weekly for a good portion of the year. I was diligent about taking time off as I needed it, and I went to concerts as often as I could.
I went to a lot of concerts.
Over the course of the year I went to 22. More than I've ever gone to in a single calendar year, and more than a large portion of folks I've ever known will ever go to. If there was a concert anywhere in Ontario (and two in Brooklyn) that I was aware of and I knew the band, I went. I went to a lot of concerts, and while at them, often solo, one thing became increasingly apparent, how clear and creative my thoughts were during them. I did a lot of good thinking there, and I came up with a lot of ideas I thought I could write about. Sometimes I was drunk or a little bit high (I started consuming CBD dominant vapes and edibles as part of my breakdown disaster recovery, and it's not hard to just get high if you try a bit) and it would be either brilliance forever lost because I wrote down gibberish, or it would be nothing better than nonsensical ramblings of someone in no position to think publicly. But what struck me each time was that I felt my creativity return. And what really sank my heart about that was that I didn't ever realize it left.
This brings us closer to the November-ish of 2022. I had a couple of concerts left lined up for the year. A very satisfying couple of seasons of concerts with some of my favourite bands, and ones that I'd long hoped to see in my life but for 20+ years of attendance never got the chance to (Rage Against the Machine probably highest on that list). The realization of how much live music I'd taken in throughout the year gave me the idea to write about each of the shows, but to treat them as a frame for the story I've always been most comfortable sharing, and the one that I've found most enjoyed by readers such as yourself, the story of me. My experiences. My perspectives. The story idea I've returned to over and over again.
Now I'm pretty sure that you're thinking “Oh shit yeah that sounds like a great idea,” and I still mostly agree with that, but I fucked up. I kept putting it off. Pushing for the time I'd be on intermission, sitting in a villa somewhere in the countryside of some European country for some reason with a bottle of wine or whiskey, as all good writers do, capturing it all for the eager masses. Surely a publishing deal good for half a dozen books would fall out of it. It would be a life changing event. But that could never happen if it could never be planned, and it wasn't. So I just never got around to writing about it. The perspectives I had in those moments faded over time, and writing about shows I saw over a year ago, forcing myself to remember (read: make up) the thoughts I had at the time doesn't add value to anything. I'd no more recommend people spend their precious time reading it than I'd like to spend mine writing it. So I shelved the idea. Maybe one day it'll resurface with some more current concert attendances, or maybe I'll find something else that I think is worth both of our time.
Ultimately, however, that only becomes true if I am able to get better at it. And I think the best way to do that is to simply put things out in the world. To write. A fucking lot. So here we are.
Thanks for making it. I'd really appreciate feedback if you did.
<3 flurp