For me, writing songs is like kissing boys. There might be some good luck for awhile, but then, for one reason or another, it just ends. There is always the hope of it happening again, and that when it does, it will be fantastic – but it might take years.
Years.
Anyway.
I finally finished a new song! It’s super sassafras, and I think I really like it. Maybe one day you’ll get to hear it.
As for the kissing of boys, WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW.
Last night, I was working it at the gym with my iPod on shuffle, when this song came on.
Lazy Summer Love by annieparsons
Honest to goodness, I had all but forgotten that I ever wrote it.
This old demo made me remember what it felt like to write songs before anyone ever told me I was doing it wrong. When I had an idea, I just wrote. Unreserved. I didn’t “know” enough to “know” what was wrong with my writing – which is what made it ME.
I miss that me.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve written anything, music-wise. I don’t even want to say how long, for fear of no longer being able to call myself a songwriter.
But I’ve been getting inspired again (why does it take senseless, underwhelming man-drama to stir it up? And yes, that is all I’m saying). I have ideas. I even think they’re good ideas.
And I want to write them.
These ideas have been bothering me for awhile now – like a stray hair that gets stuck to your shirt somewhere between the armpit and the elbow, brushing against the back of your arm, out of sight and out of reach. Phantom pains. Rogue apparitions.
It’s time for them to materialize.
So I’m telling you. I’m going to write them. I’m going to finish them.
Hold me to it.
Just don’t tell me how to do it. This is going to happen my way.
Remember when I boldly proclaimed that I was going to walk 1,000 miles between Memorial Day and Labor Day?
Well, then I went to Nashville, where being outside in the summer is the equivalent of being in utero without an umbilical cord. Is that gross of me to say? I don’t know – do YOU remember your time in the womb?
Anyway, due to sheer self-preservation and the fact that I value my life, my walking fell behind. And back in Denver, as of today, June 24, I am only at 119 miles.
Granted, 13 of those miles were yesterday. THIRTEEN! I will make up for lost time yet. Because, as New Math puts it:
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I spent yesterday at an online marketing convention, manning a booth for work. People were asking for my business card. I’ve never had anyone ask for my business card before! I was like, “Hello, I am An Expert. Nice to meet you.”
My friend Scotty recently told me that she likes getting my emails so much that I should somehow find a way to get paid to correspond with people. That was so nice of her – because after all, I do love to write emails.
But then I thought, hello. That IS my job.
Hooray!
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A lot of you have asked how my mom is doing. She had her final radiation treatment, and is completely finished with all scheduled cancer treatment. She is currently in Washington state visiting family and friends, and will be active and walking and hiking the whole time – because she is Susan Freaking Parsons and she defies the odds.
I was on the phone with her the other night, and about to hang up.
“Wait!” she cried. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for weeks.”
I prepared myself for talk of money, or maybe why I’m single.
“Do you leave your curtains open? Because I’ve been worried about sun damage to your couch.”
What would I do without this woman?
I moved to Nashville because I am a songwriter. But truth be told, at the time that I moved, I could count the number of songs I had actually written on one hand. More “brooding” than “brilliant,” I was never one of those children who composed music at age 6. The decision to write was just that: a decision… that I made when I was 23.
Then I moved to Nashville, the songwriting Mecca of America. I had nothing to go on except a hunch that words and music and expression made up a very important sliver of my heart, and that I had a passion and desire to get better at piecing them together.
In the last two years, I’ve been learning a tiny bit of what it means to write. It’s been scary – to admit to myself that I might have something worth sharing, and to open myself up to the possibility of looking like a total loser. I have felt both in equal measure – because nothing says I’M ANNIE PARSONS! like emotional highs and lows.
But here I am – a completed EP in hand. Words and music by… me. Songs that, I believe, stand on their own – and brought to life by my dear friend and producer Joshua Stevens. They’re a small offering, but they’re mine – and I can’t wait for you to hear them.
Check back on Monday to order your copy of my EP, “Wish That I Was”!
When this life, this world, this Whole Thing is all over, and we have the chance to look back on the story that was our life, I honestly believe that we won’t experience it as a narrative, but that we will hear it as a song – the most beautiful, sad, triumphant song ever written, played, or sung.
I may not be able to dream up a story that could convey the simultaneous joy and sorrow that swirl together in this life – it’s too complicated, too nuanced. It’s both dulcet and raucous, soothing and raw; words could never get it just right.
But I do believe that music could.
THAT is why I love music – because our stories cannot adequately be told through words alone.
And all those songs that I have ever started and then abandoned, with no idea for which direction to take them? One day, they’ll come together like puzzle pieces. I will see the picture I can’t see now. I will hear the songs – complete, whole, perfect, and true.
I believe that.
The work that has been started is going to get finished, and the song is going to end with the most beautifully complicated, conquering chord ever (and never) imagined. We will hear notes that have yet to exist to our ears. Everyone will sing along, instinctively knowing the harmonies and the counterparts.
And most likely, Alison Krauss will sing the descant.
My friend Zach moved from Seattle to Nashville this week; it’s great to have him here.
We hadn’t seen each other in almost 3 years until he arrived on my doorstep on Monday night. As I made dinner and we caught up, he told me that since the last time we saw each other, I’ve gotten sassier.
And here I was, thinking that I wasn’t accomplishing anything!
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Everyone knows that I pride myself on being an excellent speller. As much as I would deny it, I actually feel slightly superior when I witness someone’s spelling mistake.
Working in the realm of email, I witness people’s spelling mistakes all the time. The other day, I rolled my eyes when a woman wanted to “rescind” her email campaign – because hello, doesn’t she know how to spell “resend”?? I mean, duh.
I sent her back some very detailed instructions on how to resend her email.
And then, I was informed “rescind” is actually a word. It means to revoke, to undo what was done – in this case, to pull back the emails after they’ve been sent out (which is impossible, FYI – once you hit send, the deed is done – BE SURE, people!).
In any case, consider me humbled.
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I went to the Bluebird last night with the lovely Haley Shaw. Luke Laird sang a song called “People in Planes” – please go listen. I loved it – I think it’s brilliant. The second verse kills me.
Behold, the return of the deadbeat blogger!
I mean, seriously. It’s embarrassing. I have been like an unfit mother – one who leaves her kids in the car while she hits up the Safeway for PBR and tampons. I have abandoned this blog in the parking lot for far too many days – and in the meantime, not written a single word of ANYTHING.
But really, can you blame me? I was busy fulfilling MY LIFE DREAM.
If you’ve been reading this site for longer than two minutes, you’ll know that I’m a songwriter, and that the jewel of my heart (um, yes, I just called it “the jewel of my heart” – so?) is the Bluebird Café. Back in October, when I was invited to play there (can we all just squeal one more time?), June 21 felt so far away. But before I knew it, my parents were flying in, Greta was surprising me on my doorstep the day before (listen – can you hear me scream?), I was trying on 96 different outfits, and then, all of a sudden, staring out at the lights.
This is what it looks like when dreams come true. (Thanks to Deb for the picture!)
And this is what it sounds like. (Thanks to AnnieBlogs for recording!)
And here are best friends.
And here are just a few of the most wonderful cheerleaders.
And here are amazing parents.
And here is a man with a mullet in a SweetTarts shirt.
Because this is Hootenannie.com – where the blogs end strong.
Music is never going to pay my bills – and I have no expectation that it should. So why is it important that I dedicate any time, energy, or effort to it?
Because I believe that we simply must do what we love.
But in the last 6 months, I’ve really stopped pursuing musical endeavors. I am not writing. I rarely go to shows. I feel depleted, and uninspired, and checked out. I work long days, and have my evenings booked up with various commitments and responsibilities. So many other things have taken the place of writing. Silence is a rarity, imagination seemingly an impossibility.
How do we keep the thing that we love a priority? In the midst of work and relationships and laundry and grocery shopping and getting a zit INSIDE ONE’S NOSTRIL, how do we stay focused on what we were created to love?
I am grateful for my very full life. But these days, all I want to do is drive away.
I don’t know where to go, though.
And so I stay.
I can blame my lack of creativity on this exhaustion and depletion, thinking that I just need to change something about my day-to-day reality. It’s so easy to live a guilt-based existence, assuming that if only I did this or that differently, I could dig myself out of this hole.
But to think that “success” or “failure” – in any area of my life – is up to ME? That is giving myself far too much credit.
I have to remember that the only true source of life and inspiration is in Christ.
I don’t know where else to go.
And so I stay.
Last night’s catfish and collard greens isn’t sitting so well. Since when have I been an eater of collard greens? Sheesh. I don’t know. It strikes me as odd that I would willingly order something that people would only eat if rummaging for food in the forest. It’s practically chard.
And yet, last night, it sounded so good.
I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn – although I’m not sure that it counts as the “crack” if the sun hasn’t come up yet. After driving Mel to the airport in an outrageous thunderstorm, I hydroplaned home, used Julie’s expired inhaler, and crawled back into bed.
Bad idea.
Now, several hours later, I can barely type. Albuterol does it to me; I am shaking like… a leaf?
Oooooh, it makes me so sad that I didn’t come up with a better simile.
Which reminds me of a fantastic list of similes, metaphors, and analogies I once saw – found in high school essays, submitted by English teachers across the country, and compiled into one glorious list. They’re the best of the worst, and the worst of the best. Here they are:
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Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
She had a deep, throaty genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
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And just because it is fabulously senseless, here’s one of my favorite similes, brought to you by Patrick Swayze:
“She’s like the wind, through my tree.”
There is only one thing that would be enticing enough to make me skip “Lost” and pay $36 to go on a date with myself, by myself.
I mean, barring an NSYNC reunion tour. Obviously.
Last night, I came home from work and changed my clothes. I reapplied makeup. I fluffed my hair, and wore my cute shoes, and took myself down to the Belcourt Theater. I ordered a glass of wine, found a seat toward the middle, and proceeded to wait for the show to start.
If I’m going to take myself on a date, I am definitely going to be punctual. Excessively punctual. BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT! (I might have been an hour early.)
But the show was worth the wait. Matraca Berg (wrote a little ditty called “Strawberry Wine”), Gretchen Peters (wrote a little something called “Independence Day”), and Suzy Bogguss (looks as good today as she did in 1995) played a round. Matraca is coming out with her first album in 10 years, and she played some of her new material; it was heart-stopping. Suzy’s voice was effortless, strong, and true. And Gretchen… well, in recent days, Gretchen has been my favorite writer (a position continually jockeyed for between Patty Griffin and Lori McKenna and Matraca and Gretchen). When she sang “You Don’t Even Know Who I Am,” I couldn’t breathe – and didn’t realize it until the end when I finally exhaled.
Songs like these are my heart and soul – moments of definition in my often nebulous life. Per Heather’s recommendation, I watched this fascinating piece, and loved hearing that “the mind of God is music resonating” (“…through 10-dimensional hyperspace,” but let’s not pretend that I know what that means).
It reminded me of this, which I had totally forgotten that I ever wrote.
I hope that you can do something that you love today.
