staring at a clean white page

I had poetry written in this space that I now type over. It was the poetry of a (writer) who is stuck between here and there and over here and under there for the last few months. But I'm back...far far back.

So far back, my music taste has returned to genres and bands that first excited me at 14. It's not a perpetuating state of nostalgia but rather a rediscovery. A rediscovery that has also opened me up to the greats in the scene right now. It's a kind of mini-life crisis (I suppose) compelling me to listen to bands, such as Senses Fail, and wonder if I've actually outgrown that girl on the school bus with her discman.

Perhaps I don't have to.

I used that discman (courtesy of my broken iPod) on my commute from Kamloops to Vic last weekend. My head phones are the vector to sanity. My discman hums in my lap as the bus hums over the highway. Powerlines swooping and soaring outside the window to the tempo of a Bright Eyes and A Day to Remember mixed CD (Yes, I realize the genre disparity between those two bands.) Life makes more sense on the bus with my headphones on and a pen in my hand.

My dreams are becoming realized but I'm too busy to appreciate it.
No matter my other interests, my passion is fueled by sounds and those who work with sounds. The artists, the industry, the writers. The Writers. THE WRITERS.
I'm the Renegade Radio Editor and my first issue is coming out in January. These past couple months have been a super steep learning curve: contacting labels, publicists, musicians, coordinating interviews, setting up writers, editing and sooooo many emails. My favourite part is the interviews.

On Halloween I interviewed We Are the City. (I'll add the link to the story once it's on our RR website.) Olivia came with me and the whole night was more fun because I had an interview. When I was 14, going to the show was enough. But now, especially partaking in a scene I didn't grow up in, it's great to have another purpose when I attend shows. The guys were super sweet and the story wrote itself (unlike all my essays and term papers...urgh.)

Saturday night was The Stills, Girl Talk and K-Os. I emailed Arts and Crafts ( <3!) and landed an interview with The Stills. Of course, a time wasn't confirmed so I had to show up early. I scored media passes for Jeff and I then worked on getting the interview. After talking to tons of people, witnessing roadies assemble the stage, and eventually getting the road manager, we sit down with Tim Fletcher. He was cool, well-spoken and at times relatively profound. We chatted arts, culture, society...music.

The more I engage in the music journalism realm, the less I'm intrigued by other careers I thought I wanted to pursue. While I love my journalism class (because my prof (S.Holman) is brilliant in his field), the main thing I've learned is that hard news/political journalism is not my beat. Nope. I suppose that's why we start playing dressup in kindergarten. That way, by the time we hit university we're ready to try on careers (and learn if we can actually play our roles).

In fact the only writing I do (that gives me satisfaction) is for my Writing 336 class (Long Creative Non-Fiction). I'm working on a book. It's part narrative/cultural criticism/history of the Kamloops music scene. One chapter nearly finished! 10 more to go! As my narrative progresses sequentially over summer 09, I'm forced to re-analyze how I've arrived where I am. How the sounds and players shaped the music scene. It's fun, but a huge risk.

I'm not sure if I'm a writer; I know I'm compelled to write. I'm fascinated and motivated by social justice studies but my heartbeat is still synchronized with sound. I want to interview Wilco, Tom Gabel, A Day To Remember.

Art is a risk. We're all artists. We're all writers. Writers write letters. Writers compose songs, scribble poems, rewrite blogs that are deleted at 2 am. Writers crack open a beer or pour a glass of wine at midnight before an 830 journalism class. Not that all writers drink. But many do.




I'm hunched over a typewriter I guess you'd call that painting in a cave And there's a word I can't remember And a feeling I cannot escape And now my ashtray's overflowing I'm still staring at a clean white page Oh, and morning's at my window And she is sending me to bed again.