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.

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