To know me is to know this.
I'm a night owl who has to live an adult life during the day. I feel like I'm leading a double life-- and I mean that in the least melodramatic way possible.
During the day, I run errands and go to a job that I sometimes hate, somewhat enjoy, but merely tolerate, overall. At night, I do journalism stuff. I use whatever energy I have left to run a moderately successful music journalism website. I spend
To get vain and quote myself: Good music exists, you just have to spend a little more time sorting through the shit to find it. It’s not the sorting through shit that we love, but the gold that lies beneath.
Exactly.
I've been subsisting on approximately three hours of sleep per night all week.
(I do not recommend it.)
Today was tired. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, my shit was vacant today. I have been running on fumes and instinct for about two days now and it's catching up with me. Even I can look at my face and see how tired I am.
Rough.
But today the payoff was... incendiary.
I was asked to write for a media blog. A media blog which pays people to write for it.
I'd guess that it'll only be enough money to cover AM's* hosting expenses, but I'm fine with that. I'm not trying to get rich, I just want to eventually make a living off of doing what I love. And this is certainly a start.
I've been published, but I've never been paid for it.
I once read that you know you're doing things right when someone offers to pay you for your art. People can compliment you for free. Once someone is willing to offer something of theirs in order to own something of yours, you're creating something worth having-- even if only to that person.
So if I could pour this feeling all over the floor, I'd roll around in it for the next three days.
I have butterflies.
The offer alone means the world to me.
I hope one day AM can make enough money for me to pay people in some way.
[*I am not using the website's full name because I don't want people Googling it and ending up here. Hell no. I feel better when I'm just a faceless writer for the site who has a name and no personal life.]
A few hours after being asked to write for the media blog, Butch Walker's marketing manager emailed us and offered up all kinds of publicity stuff on Butch.
UM.
I have been looking for this fool's email address for just over a year. And don't think I don't know how to stalk down an email address. I do-- sometimes too well. Sometimes I look downright creepy.
But he somehow found us and then emailed us information on one of my TOP TEN FAVORITE ARTISTS.
I don't even try to deny it on the site. In fact, I publicize it.
feel free to fall in love somewhere right around 2:54 and 3:30; musicians who are talented enough to sing without microphones = sweet spot for me. hooray.
I have this list of musicians that I can die happy if I get to interview:
Jack White.
Ernie Halter (I literally had to walk off the excitement after I got the confirmation email for that interview.)
Steven Tyler
Will Hoge
Rivers Cuomo
Kele Okereke
Cody Chesnutt
Butch Walker... (the list is kinda long. I'll end it here.)
Some musicians just have minds that were built for music.
Jack White is undeniably one of those people, for instance.
I think some people are musicians simply because they like music and they happen to be good at it. But other people become musicians because they have no choice but to make music.
That list of musicians can differ for us all, but for me, that's a very abbreviated list of the artists that will last-- at least for me. So I am beyond flattered that anyone who works for Butch Walker would decide to email us. That. is whoa.
It was only two things but they were big things that rocked my day and made me feel like something special is happening.
I'm a little emotional about it.
Though I don't have kids, I'd imagine this is what it feels like when your genius child wins some really great award.
Anyway. Just for fun, I've interviewed both of them:
If I'm here to record my accomplishments and navel-gaze, I'd like for you to get something out of it, too.
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