He didn’t start to write because his heart wasn’t in it.
He had started to write because he was in a band, playing bowling alleys, VFW halls, Hotel bars, in Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, Utah, Calgary, anyplace they could find to play, and they had needed songs he wanted to sing, that people would dance to. He had done it for fifteen years. There was what he saw, or thought should be seen, that should be songs. They were good songs, and his heart was in it.
He had started writing songs because they should be sung, and he could make money out of it. People liked his songs, he liked singing them. They were good songs, his heart was in it.
He had started writing because he had something to say.
There are a lot of stories between then and now. How his wife (future) had walked into this Wyoming dance hall one night, and they had never noticed anyone else since that first glance, how his daughter had turned from an infant to a nearly young lady, about how his son was turning from an infant, to a little boy full of little boy sparkle, about how he would never, ever, change, or put at risk, any of that. But there were songs in it. Songs he had never sung.
Between the bars, and the home, there were songs he didn’t know how to sing.
He hadn’t a clue how to write the truth in it. The joy, the fulfilling satisfaction, it all seemed inexpressible.
Late at night he would sit in his home studio and write things he didn’t know what to do with, he would sing for people he knew were not there, he would pour his dreams into his heart, and put them on his computer, and sometimes he would smile at the incompleteness of it all.
He didn’t know how to share his dreams of today, his joys, that which he had never known in the bars. He didn’t know how to exchange his vision for money. So he resisted those moments of creativity. He denied their validity. But he loved that others could do it, and with that came an anguish born in his own ability, denied. His own belief in the justification of his own dreams, in just that area denied, did tear at him.
Still, those nights, pen to paper, were not to be denied, and he did smile.
”Quite something you’ve gotten us into, Ollie”, he would mumble to himself.