After I finish an album, there is an intimidating space.
I've talked and written about and played and played the last album,
and there is only silence ahead for the next.
Every time I wonder , "How did I do that?", and then I remember.
I went into the garden and stared.
I stared, for the hours I set aside for music, as long as I needed to.
To get over the fear, to be in the space, to stop trying.
To let things float in.
This time, I wait for my baby to come.
I have hours to spend, with tiredness, dreaminess, tears, contractions that pull me into a deep dark.
I remember to lift off the pressure of writing anything "usable".
And of course, press record.
I just worked on a piece, the piano sounding loud in G, singing, singing.
and then stopped to drink water and pay some bills.
As I answered an email, the song comes back to me in echoes,
It echoes like a distant siren, music from inside another house.
And I want to open it again, and add to it.
I am happy that I remembered how to do this!
The biggest and most joyous part of writing,
Letting ideas evaporate off of me, without my mind involved at all.
The first phase, just letting it out.