Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Three

A seventeen year old writer/musician sent an email, "Bro. About to graduate. Grades are through the roof. I spent my childhood determined to become a doctor. Now that it's time to shed this part of my life. I've changed my mind. I can't find anyone that understands how badly I want to write and perform music." It took a little bit of time to reply. I've never been the type to shame an Artist. Only to receive, "What I do scare you away?" Without thought I fired back, "Have you looked at the numbers? The creative industry is oversaturated. Do you practice every day? Are you performing on any stage? Dreams are a great high! But it's desert for those controlling song lyrics. Then again...I could be wrong. Maybe your lifelong wish is to be in a bar band. My gut says stick to what you've studied thus far and remain true to becoming a doctor." I knew the teen would revolt, "You've written your entire life! You make it look like nothing gets in the way. I want the same! To write music until I hear silence." My turn to be the kid wearing big boy pants, "How could there ever be silence when God creates every day?" The moment those words fell from the tips of my fingerprints onto the face of the flat screen...I was reminded of my current writing project Scrambled Eggs. I was visited. An extremely rainy cold Carolina night. The visitor was easily recognized. He sat on the corner of my bed. We cried. The moment I woke. I knew my life would change forever. But I didn't know how or when. I documented the visit inside my daily journal. As if to be counting down the days of the creative arrival. Between February 2011 and November 2012. I had written a lot of songs. Been to the studio to record countless times. Argued with producers. Shattered friendships. Injured my dreams of chasing. Even in radio. I said, "It's over." "How could there ever be silence when God creates every day?" Because I document growth. As stupid as it may or might seem. It allows me to revisit without taking up too much room with assumption. Nearly every sheet of music. Every lyric scratched onto the backside of radio copy. How somehow, someway ended up being some of the most expressive moments inside this book I currently write Scrambled Eggs. The visitor. His face I did know. Shallow as it seems. He found a way to breathe. Through my writing. Just this morning. I tapped away at the computer screen, "Be the writer. Live out the pressures of challenge meeting discovery. Make light for corners darkened by madness. Send into the future your art. For anybody can be a doctor. But nobody but you can be you when holding that writing instrument."