Last night, I returned from Kansas City to Nashville and, upon depositing my suitcases at home, put a beer in my purse and drove to my old apartment to clean before my lease is up. And as I sipped on Red Hook and Swiffered the floors, I thought of what I’ve been learning about writing.

I thought about how writing songs is like working on a jigsaw puzzle, turning a piece this way and that, trying to figure out how it might fit – and when it doesn’t, trying it in a different place. Sometimes I start with the edge pieces and work my way in; other times, I begin with the lower left-hand corner and have absolutely no idea what might be forming… until suddenly, with a single certain piece falling into place, the big picture is made clear. That is an exciting thing – the brief moment of warmth in an otherwise desolate landscape.

I thought about how there is an art to attempting to live buoyantly and passionately, yet still having eyes to see and words to tell of darkness and hurt – for that is so much of the world that we live in, and it’s important that writers tell the truth. My favorite songs are sad ones; how can I write sad songs and still be a healthy and contented person? I want to figure that out.

I thought about how miraculous a privilege it is to birth something into the world, to bring forth a scene, a song, an emotion, and then step back and view it – something where there once was nothing.

And I thought about how sometimes, there are no words.

I thought about how the practice of writing has made me more aware, more observant, with quivering ears attuned to any truth worth telling. And I thought about how the biggest gift that writing has given me is a greater appreciation for other people’s astounding words. I’m a better reader. I’m a better listener. And I love good songs even more than I did before.

I thought about the times that I have wished to write like Greta, or Allie, or Cameron. I thought about my deficit of poetical bones. (See? Super dumb sentence.)

But then I thought about how Stephanie called me out of the blue one day, and told me that something I had written brightened her otherwise dreary afternoon. And I had the distinct feeling that if my words could make a small-town Colorado housewife smile, then I was on the right path.

And I thought about the time that Duane encouraged me to change one of my songs – to revisit it, to perhaps rewrite part of it. And when I listened to his advice and did it, it WAS better. I became a better writer.

I thought of the card waiting in my mailbox last night from the friends saying, “We believe in you,” and how those words are worth more than any amount of money.

And I thought about all of you, continuing to land on this blog day after day, even when you know it’s a weekend and I won’t be writing, even when all I talk about is hair dye and shower curtains and bra shopping, even when I feel sorry for myself and am convinced that the sky is falling… you listen: strangers, many of you, giving me a moment of your attention each day. I am so grateful – because your permission that I be a person in process has given me the freedom to grow.

Writing is the only thing that I know I want to do for the rest of my life (that, and get as many shoulder rubs as I can). And I suspect that the more that I write, the more I will figure out that the real value lies in the doing of it. Even if nothing ever “happens.” Even if there is never a song published, or a book released, or a memoir read aloud on “Oprah.” I’ll be glad for the moments spent writing, stringing words together like beads on a thread – for it is in these moments that I feel like I might actually be living up to something.

I said that I moved to Nashville to learn. So last night, in light of yesterday’s lament, I steered my little Honda toward 3rd & Lindsley to listen to music and see who I might meet. It’s always intimidating to walk into a bar alone, but as long as you have good posture, no one questions you.

I met several writers and musicians who have been here 10, 20, 30 times longer than I have. And through meandering conversation with each of them, I took away these gems:

• When it comes to creativity, there is no such thing as a dry spell. The dull, uneventful, uninspiring times are always the preparation and the cultivation of something good. In other words, get ready.
• Write when you feel like it. Write when you don’t.
• In what is becoming a resounding lesson and theme for my life, “you never really arrive.” Any goal that I set for myself will eventually be met – and then there will just be another goal beyond that. Learn to see the creative process not as a destination, but as a journey.
• Don’t be surprised if the road you’re on leads you somewhere entirely other than where you think you’re headed.
• Some people wait years before getting out there and “doing it.” Having written what I’ve written, recorded what I’ve recorded, met who I’ve met, played where I’ve played, and experienced what I’ve experienced, in a lot of ways I am ahead of the curve. Who knew?
• When faced with a blank mind and no good ideas, read. Absorb. Learn. And having read 4 books in the last 2 weeks, I AM TOTALLY DOING SOMETHING RIGHT!

I also met a woman who teaches guitar lessons, which is exciting since I have definitely reached a plateau in my skills – if we can even call them “skills.” I met another woman from Seattle – I could have kissed her on the lips. And I was once again reminded that Nashville musicians are some of the nicest people in the entire world. It’s good that I’m here.

And just like that, Annie pulled herself up by her bootstraps. Talk about emotional whiplash. I haven’t been doing this – this pursuing a dream come hell or high-water – long enough to know the patterns, the rhythms, the tricks, the necessary tenacity. But I’m a work in progress… as well as a persnickety nut case.

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One last thing: I was told to diversify the music that I am listening to. Sometimes it’s helpful to immerse yourself in the craft that you want to learn, but there comes a point where you need to get OUT. In the past, you, my loyal blog readers, have provided me with some awesome music suggestions; Michelle who suggested Obadiah Parker’s cover of “Hey Ya,” you are my Person of the Year. People, I need your help again.

Please let me know a song or two that you think I need to hear. Criteria: 1) it must have a good melody, 2) it must have great words, and 3) it must make you feel something. I’m counting on you, Guilford, CT. And you, Frisco, TX. And you, Cherry Hill, NJ. And even you, Yukon Territory. Make me proud.

Here it is – the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Or… at least the moment I’ve been TALKING UP. I have 4 brand spankin’ new songs up on MySpace – you can listen here.

Initially, I had thought that a simple guitar/vocal demo would be sufficient – just me and my Martin. But having the great fortune of working with the über-talented Jim Reilley and Eric Fritsch (and their bionic ears), I got so much more than I bargained for. Guitars, mandolin, bass, banjo, Wurlitzer, Hammond B3, even a rain stick shaker… Get ready for some sonic stimulation. Jim and Eric did an impressive job of making things sound good, despite my very green guitar playing and out-of-shape vocals – I prefer to think of my performance as “unpolished” and “folksy.”

At one point in the day, my friend Julie stopped by the studio to say hello. She casually mentioned that she had played French horn in high school, oh, 7 years ago. That was all that we needed to hear – you can hear her majestic 2 notes repeated several times in the background during the chorus of “My Own Hand.” Words cannot describe how much this delights me!

As a writer, it’s exciting to watch what was once only an idea – a fleeting thought or a word or a previously unarticulated emotion – actually take shape. Piece by piece and bit by bit, to watch it become. It’s among the most wondrous things I have experienced, and I have found a deep satisfaction in following through with the creative process. I expect that the more that I do this, the more comfortable and cohesive it will feel.

And so, without further ado… I HOPE YOU LIKE ACCORDION!

Yesterday marked the release of the long-awaited, long-anticipated fourth chapter in the “Indiana Jones” saga. I probably won’t see it. Not that I have anything against the movie – it’s just that I haven’t been to a movie in months, and haven’t really had the desire.

Have movies lost their magic for me? Maybe so.

But since we’re speaking of Indiana Jones, I bring to you another Annie the Nanny story from the archives of my life.

Little Brother: “Let’s play Indiana Jones!”

Big Brother: “Okay, I’ll be Indiana Jones.”

Little Brother: “No, I’M Indiana Jones!”

Big Brother: “No I AM.”

Little Brother: “NOOOOOOO!!!! I AM!!!!!”

Big Brother: [long pause] [far-off look in his eyes] [wheels turning] “Okay. I have an idea. How about we’re BOTH Indiana Jones. But you call me ‘Indiana Jones’ and I call you ‘Puff Boy.’”

Little Brother: “Okay!”

From 2002 until 2005, I was Annie the Nanny for two little boys in Seattle. The first year was a full-time job, and the next two were part-time as I finished school. These little guys were my funny companions, my paper airplane playmates, the reason that I wanted to pull my hair out and the reason that my heart spilled over with love. Even after I finished my stint as their nanny, I continued to see them about once each week. Now that I’m in Nashville, I miss them a lot.

One of their favorite treats was to be told stories – stories made up on the fly, extemporaneously, in real time, with virtually no prep.

Ready, go.

In fact, my very first day on the job, it was requested of me to tell a story that integrated the lives of a Red-Tailed Hawk, a Black Widow Spider, and a Hyena. Welcome.

I found that, when telling stories about fictional characters in fantastical scenarios, my mind would tend to go blank, and then I would scramble. Put on the spot, my best character names were drawn directly from prescription drugs: “Captain… Zoloft, and his flunky… Prednisone!” In order to avoid the inevitable panic that would set in on the days when I had absolutely no creative spark, I began to build upon two series of stories; it was easier to make up something on the fly when I had already developed some characters to draw from.

My first series: “Crabs on the Loose.”

It was not about an STD.

My second series: “Annie Queen of Doom.”

“Annie Queen of Doom” starred myself, naturally – cloaked in a black cape and wearing excessive amounts of eyeliner – and two Komodo dragons, named after the boys. These illustrious characters lived on Mt. Distromotry (a fictional term which, very technically, translates to “acid mixed with lava”), next to the Bog of Eternal Stench, where they often battled Emperor Badbum. Emperor Badbum was constantly after the Rainbow Sapphire, buried deep within the bowels of Mt. Distromotry, and so our heroes were always on guard. He was a terrible enemy, but he had one weakness: crying babies. And so when Annie Queen of Doom and her Komodo dragons would march into battle, they would push trams full of wailing infants.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my creativity.

Today, we had our family Christmas celebration. Having a pastor for a dad and a musician for a mom, Christmas Eve has never been a holiday as much as it’s been a “work” day, and this year, we’re leaving on Christmas Day to drive to Colorado for a week. So today was our only chance to celebrate as an entire family.

Being unemployed and living on a tight budget, my funds were meager this year. But one of my favorite gifts turned out to be one that I made.

First, I watercolored 5 little flowers – although our scanner has washed them out slightly:

Then, I paperclipped them to a ribbon to make a little banner.

That’s all! Simple, but cute, and it reminds me of Ashley and her shabby chic style.

Speaking of flowers, I am obsessing over Amy Butler these days. Her fabric? Her notecards? Her frella stunning designs? I want her to supply me with all things “home decor” in my new Nashville home. If I was a quilter, I would make an Amy Butler quilt. If I was a seamstress, I would make an Amy Butler trenchcoat. If I was an upholsterer, I would make this.

See, it’s like this: if we all have a harmony to our melody, a yin to our yang – a floral counterpart, if you will – she is totally mine.