i really never know what i'm going to write before i write it. and so it always amazes me when someone says, (as joel brock said crossing the street today), "you're quite the writer." i'm truly flattered. and actually, i don't even really believe the words could possibly be true. for starters, i never even fancied myself a writer. i maybe considered myself to be the opposite of a writer. i've always failed miserably at keeping any sort of diary. my poetry borders on pathetic: too self-absorbed, too whiny, too immature, and too literal. and my songwriting, well that is just plain naive, an accidental mimicry of the songs i learned first, the cheesy sing-alongs from methodist church camp and the doo-wop oldies my mom and i sang harmonies along to in the car. i've always thought of myself as a visual person, an inarticulate but creative artist-type. but lately, the writing has been good for me. i've been venting, approaching it as if i were in a personal, tell-all conversation with whoever...oh, maybe oprah... in a stream-of-consciousness way. i'm balls to the wall, with very few edits. and maybe, like so much of life, that's why it reads easy, maybe that's why it works for people: it's impulsive, it's human, and it's instinctual.
in the same vein, i never even imagined in my wildest dreams i would be a drummer. i played guitar since i was thirteen, but singing about how many roads a man could possibly walk down or what i would do if i was a hammer never seemed to get me anywhere. i am no better today than i was at thirteen. but at least i'm a decent strummer. and maybe that's because i've always been a dancer. not a great one, but rhythmic. i remembered the steps, the kick-ball-changes and the jazz squares, and i wore the sequined outfits and performed in the mall courtyards on holidays. yes, i've been a performer since i was just a girl, and it's still in there. and so a year into my adventure into drumming, it's all beginning to click. listening to the recordings of our practice tonight, i can hardly believe that's me in there, keeping the beat, the words of mr. will canepa echoing in my head. "you're a fucking metronome!" he said, and strangely, i'm beginning to agree.