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Image Source: coffeeshop poetry and prose

“YOU ARE GOING RAPIDLY FAR IN THE DIRECTION YOU DON’T WANT TO GO AND NOWHERE IN THE DIRECTION YOU DO WANT TO GO.”

There it was, fixed in the tangible form of my notebook in bold all-caps script: a clarion call to revolution. My mid-life crisis at age 26.

It was a Sunday afternoon in August, 1999, one of the first days of the ending summer that hinted at football rather than baseball. I was in the basement of Curious Liquids Boston, latte and notebook on the table, trying to tell myself something about myself.

This was an optimistic line, since I was also going rapidly nowhere in the direction I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t really know it yet. I had been working 50-plus-hour weeks as a temp for John Hancock: my boss seemed to like me and there was talk of moving me to a permanent position. But all the talk was thin, rapidly melting ice.

Curious Liquids was a lovely coffee shop directly across from the State House on Beacon Hill. Don’t go looking for it: it’s now the Fox 25 studio. The liquids weren’t curious, exactly, but they were damn good, and there was a stone basement room that felt like an extremely cozy Medieval prison. I tended to gravitate there on Sundays, when I could kick out on a leather sofa and while away a few hours writing.

I wrote the line as part of a larger journal entry, and I remember staring at it. Epiphany time. I didn’t hear the Hallelujah chorus, no sirens or disco balls appeared and no confetti dropped from the ceiling. But I felt a change, and I knew that this would be an important moment in one year, five years, ten years, and I would remember it.

What direction did I NOT want to go? Corporate life. Button-down, soul-sucking, divide-and-conquer 9:00-5:00. What direction did I WANT to go? After several years away, I wanted to play in a working band again, but bigger. I last worked playing the Augusta cover scene, and I would have rather drank hairspray than play “Sweet Home Alabama” for a room full of tooth-deprived backwoods drunks ever again. I wanted to play originals in Boston, one of the greatest scenes in America.

And I wanted maybe to write. I had thought of writing a bit, and the writing in some of the fan ‘zines covering the Boston scene was pretty atrocious. Maybe I could do that. And, I thought, if I’m writing, it will be easier to overcome my painful shyness and start circulating among musicians…

I left Curious Liquids that day and immediately went looking for a copy of The Noise, one of the longest running and most prestigious ‘zines. I had never written for even a high school newspaper, and I knew nothing about word count or editing or anything. But I thought I could at least write a little better than some of what I had seen.

On Friday, September 10th, my position with John Hancock ended, starting a two-year descent into instability and depression. The next week I whipped together a few bogus writing samples and mailed them into The Noise. Several days later the phone rang, right in the middle of Sally Jessie Raphael (or was it Rikki Lake?). It was T-Max, publisher of The Noise. I expected a polite thanks-but-no-thanks, but no, I was suddenly a staff writer.

From there I started writing live and CD reviews and started circulating. From there I landed in several bands playing originals in Boston. From there I recorded several CDs and got a decent amount of airplay. From there…

I had my first mid-life crisis at 26 in the basement of a Boston coffee shop that no longer exists. I have gone rapidly far in the direction I want to go, and I continue to follow that direction as my goals and dreams shift. I think I may have been on to something pursuing that writing thing. I have a long way to go before I achieve literary self-sufficiency, but that is the goal. And it’s fixed in the tangible form of my notebook in bold all-caps script: a clarion call to revolution now as I’m days away from 40.

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