"We must be willing to give up the life we have planned in order to have the life that awaits us." ~Joseph Campbell
For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by music. One of my earliest memories is listening to Simon & Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson" at 45 rpm. I sang publicly for the first time in third grade, performing the hit "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. I sang an a cappella at a school rally, although strictly speaking I don't know all the words.
At home, I ate my father's records and tapes (pop, performance tunes, classical music, "old songs") and began building my own collection at the age of 9 (the top 40s and hard rock in the early '80s). For fun, I arranged the music myself and wrote the lyrics in a notebook.
Begging, I finally got my guitar and started classes at the age of thirteen. The Beatles were discovered about a year ago, and music became a complete obsession. I practiced relentlessly, paying for my courses with a job I did at a local record store when I was 14 (I was there often and they eventually hired me) and within a few years began my first serious attempt at songwriting.
In my teenage years, my musical heroes provided so much joy, comfort, catharsis, and inspiration that I naturally followed them and developed a strong desire to own a musical career of my own. Performing for my peers in social situations tends to get a lot of positive attention, which makes me very eager to achieve more success.
For me, music has also become a way to alleviate the typical insecurities of young people.
In college, I would habitually hang out in my dorm room with my guitar and give spontaneous concerts to anyone who would listen. It's a great way to test new material and connect with others, and there are few things in life that give me as much fun as singing and playing.
I remember the café show I played on campus got such a positive response that there was no turning back at all. It was ecstatic to be so appreciated for doing something I already enjoyed, so I looked even more eagerly for acting opportunities – formal and informal.
Along the way, music and entertainment not only became my passion, but made me feel worthwhile. The guitar is like a superpower – with it, I can be great. Without it, I am insignificant.
After college, I moved to Nashville— a mecca for songwriters from all walks of life — and plunged headlong into the music scene. I live a frugal life, do whatever day-to-day tasks I need to do, and spend most of my energy making music and trying to start a career.
I wrote new songs, performed them on writers' nights around the city, met and sometimes lived with like-minded musicians.
I recorded a studio demo but was rejected or ignored by 75 different record labels. But for me, these rejections were only part of the process of paying my dues, and it made me feel a spiritual affinity with my heroes, who all went through a similar test on their way to ultimate success.
My closest songwriter friends and I became our own society of mutual admiration and inspiration, and helped each other endure the difficulties faced in pursuing a career in a notoriously difficult and fickle industry like the music industry.
One Sunday morning, I got a call from a DJ who hosted a show on my favorite local radio station, Lightning 100. "What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
Obviously, he liked the demo I sent him.
To my surprise, on the same day, I found myself standing on the 30th floor of the L&C Building in downtown Nashville, viewing the city from the perspective of a king of the world, giving a live interview. During my visit, the DJ played two of the three songs I demonstrated via radio waves. Later I shouted gleefully in the car and went straight to my closest friend's apartment (they had been listening at home) to share my excitement with them.
Without the support or interest of a record label, I ended up funding and supervising the recording and production of a full-fledged studio album while working full-time.
After the album was completed, I started my own small label release and quit my day job so I could devote myself to the fanatical work of getting people to hear it. I became a single-player record label (as well as manager and booking agent), operated outside my bedroom, and sent copies of my finished CDs (which were the '90s) to radio stations, newspapers, and universities across the country. I followed them up by phone (which is still the 90s) and wanted to make sure it was played, commented on and performed.
I contacted hundreds of colleges and universities — mostly the most concentrated East Coast — to book my own trips.
The idea was to perform as much as possible in schools large and small, from one to the other, selling CDs, and building a mailing list in the process. This will allow me to make ends meet in the way I like, hopefully gain greater exposure, build a fan base, and ultimately build a real musician/performer career.
It was an incredibly exciting time, but also full of stress and tension. I did broadcast a few shows on radio stations across the country and got some comments on CDs, but not a lot. I was saddled with debt, obsessed with work, and would stop at nothing to make my dreams a reality. On the practical side, I think that whether or not the CD attracts attention, I'll experience life on the go and will most likely break even at least financially.
After months of relentless follow-up with 182 schools that allowed me to send promotional materials, things seemed getting bleaker. My contacts often change hands (and often students in unpaid positions), and promising deals fail.
When everything was done, I ended up with a separate booking to show off all my efforts. One. This will be the scope of my "tour".
In addition to such a dismal result, what I didn't expect was the loss it would take on me. I was exhausted in every conceivable way: physically, financially, emotionally, creatively. The most important thing, however, is the damage done to my spirit. I used to believe that as long as I worked hard enough, I would succeed, at least to some extent. These results suggest that this is not the case.
It never occurred to me that no matter how many rejections I accumulated, I would never stop trying because it was the only thing I wanted to do in my life. But now it seems that I have no choice. I could barely get out of bed.
I soon learned that despite my due diligence in paying my rent, the roommate I rented was clearly not paying the landlord! I found a notice showing that we had been in arrears for months and could be at risk of deportation at any time. I need to find a new place to stay. There is also a new job. If I were my normal self, all of this would be annoying but doable. Alas, I am not. I am a wreck.
On the phone to my mom, she said, "Why don't you come home?" ”
This is probably the biggest proof of my desperate state of not being able to think of a better option. I moved back to my childhood home – for me, it was the ultimate concession to failure.
I was completely disoriented, my direction, my purpose, my motivation. As a musician, a large part of my self-worth is tied to my artistic and commercial success. I define myself by this identity and pursuit. Without it, what am I and who am I?
While it was hard for me to accept it, I found that I didn't have more energy, zero, to invest in my dreams. The task at hand is to crawl out of depression. And debt.
It took me a few years to feel the urge to reintegrate into my life in a way that reflected my innate enthusiasm. Even so, the desire to revive the pursuit of a musical career disappeared. But once I started recovering a degree of emotional and financial stability (a cause greatly aided by boring office work), I took some tentative steps in new directions. I took some adult education classes, including a very fun acting class, and led me to try it at some community theaters.
Hiking was a key element in my recovery, so I joined the Delaware Valley chapter of the Appalachian Mountains Club and started hiking with others instead of going out alone. This led to me being invited on my first ever backpacking trip, which proved to have changed my life and inspired a greater love of outdoor activities.
Feeling much better and finally regaining possibilities for myself, I moved to California and did more internal and external exploration.
Over the next twenty years or so, I did things I never thought I would do, broadening my interests and life experiences in ways that would undoubtedly completely surprise my younger self. I also met an amazing partner and got married.
In other words: I created a life for myself and became a happier person, even though I never fulfilled my dream of becoming a professional musician and didn't achieve any notable professional success even in other fields.
Although I gave up the pursuit of music for a living, I never stopped loving music.
Over the years, I've performed in a variety of environments, sometimes for pay, but more often just for love.
I shared my passion for music with many guitar students, played as a music volunteer for hospital patients, was a passionate small venue concert audience and a growing fan of artists and styles, continued to develop my own guitar skills and even started learning classical piano lessons.
I never stop loving music. The difference is that I've finally learned to love myself regardless of whether the outside world of the music industry is successful or lacking.
We all seek outside recognition, appreciation, recognition, and recognition to varying degrees, and receiving these things can be temporarily pleasurable. However, rely on them (not to mention addicted to them!) ) is the secret to persistent unhappiness.
The Buddha taught us that all suffering stems from attachment. While it is perfectly normal and human to desire things, our desires are endless and will never be satisfied.
If we allow our happiness or sense of self-worth to depend on how things unfold, then we are accepting suffering. The more we cling to the idea of what we should be, the deeper the pain seems.
As I've learned, life is so big that it doesn't need to conform to our meager ideas about what can make us satisfied, happy, or satisfied. It's big enough to accommodate our most frustrating disappointments, and still gives us space to experience meaningful and satisfying lives, often through things we never anticipated or can't anticipate.