Musings
A Work Dream and an Iggy Pop Song with a Shared Single Interpretation
I don’t remember the last time a dream was such a clear personal metaphor. And I’ve never had one kick my ass.
Last night’s dream was nearly a nightmare, despite being free from threats of violence or grisly horror scenes. It sewed deep discomfort through spare details and a twisted fish-out-of-water setting. It was my first day with a new employer, I was working in an office again, and no one had a computer at their desk.
If there’d been an orientation or training, it was in a previous, forgotten dream installment. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. I sat at my desk, surrounded by other desks and employees (in dreaded “open workspace” arrangement), and snuck glances at my neighbors for clues on what action items I should be actioning on. No one offered to help me settle in. No one looked at me.
A coffee-table-sized book lay open before me. I flipped its pages back and forth, seeking some context for my job duties. The words and paragraphs meant nothing to me.
I searched the desktop for anything familiar—a pen, a notebook, a coffee cup—but there was only my large book. I tried to study its blocks of copy but could glean nothing. Needles of panic began stabbing me.
I turned to the person stationed to my right and dared a question: “Is reading this book my job?”
The other employee, a nondescript man, shot me an impatient look and turned back to his book. He also said something—his mouth clearly carved the words—but I heard no voice. He spoke again while turning a page, but made no sound.
Across the room, someone walked between workstations with their big book clutched like a satchel. I debated going to them and asking the same question. Then two others: Where’s my computer? Shouldn’t I be writing something? But my panic was now immobilizing, its needles pinning me to my chair.
Then I woke up.
I've thought a lot about work lately. About what I’m contributing. How I’m growing professionally (or not). What I’m writing. What I’m not. How my career trajectory looks.
I could rhapsodize on these topics, but there’s no need now. My dream made it undeniable: I’m feeling lost and useless. I have to wake up and find my way, find intention. I have to find the words that can lead me to more writing, more work. (And income, can’t forget that minor point.)
Fittingly, writing the words above brought to mind a few lines penned and sung-spoken by Iggy Pop in “Paraguay,” off his 2016 Queens of the Stone Age collaboration Post Pop Depression:
There’s nothing awesome here
Not a damn thing, there’s nothing new
Just a bunch of people scared
Everybody’s fucking scared
Fear eats all the souls at once
Iggy paints a pretty nightmarish picture here, and his brushstrokes only get darker, and snarlier, as the song chugs to its furious shouted conclusion.
Like my dream, there’s a single clear message in “Paraguay.” The dreamer/writer/character in both worlds needs to take action, to grow. To get hustling. Iggy’s solution is to literally walk away from everything and find solace and direction elsewhere—“I’m gonna go heal myself now.”
My solution? TBD, but waking up is an essential part of the equation. Here’s to 2025.
New Stuff for Bloomsbury's 33 1/3 Blog, Pearl Jam's Vs., and the Holiday Spirit
Pearl Jam’s eco-friendly CD packaging for Vs.
With the holidays approaching and mid-life mental fog encroaching, I haven’t been writing or editing as much as I’d like of late, professionally or personally. That said, I did pen a couple of pieces for the publisher of my tiny tome on Pearl Jam’s Vs., which you can read on their 33 1/3 imprint’s blog. (I guess there is still such a thing.)
The first piece is something I’m really happy about, since it went from whim to reality in a matter of days, and sandwiched between was some unexpected interaction with PJ bassist Jeff Ament. He helped inform my fresh look at the cover art and photography for the band’s second record, which is no small thing given he snapped the images on the front and back. I hadn’t really thought about the outside of Vs. in depth for years, so it was a fulfilling exercise and his contribution validated a few of my hunches.
Bloomsbury, which recently (finally) launched an Instagram presence for its 33 1/3 series, leaned into a holiday music theme late in 2023 and asked me to pitch in. Long a fan of an idiosyncratic set of Christmas tunes, I jumped at the chance to write about about some of them—under a “bleak” guise of sorts. Because wrapped deepen within all the charm and warmth of the winter holidays there just might be a knotted ember of fear and regret, maybe? It’s okay to admit it. It can’t be perfectly ripe sugarplums 24/7.
Have a look at my not-exactly-joyless playlist and then give the songs a listen. Good chance you’ll feel seen.
Remembering (My Interview with) Chris Cornell and His Creative Aspiration
On April 27, 2009, I met Chris Cornell in his downtown Seattle Four Seasons suite. His decidedly non-rock record Scream had recently been released and I was there to talk with him about artistry and expectations.
The meeting was a big deal; the publication was small and Cornell was famous. Timbaland had produced him. Trent Reznor had publicly dissed him. Millions had opinions on his chest and his past hairstyles. He had a beefy bodyguard who met me in the well-appointed hotel lobby. He had a handler who hashed out the logistics with me by phone. (This was, endearingly and surprisingly, his wife.)
Cornell was a bona fide rock star, a one percenter even among his elite peers.
And, yes, I was a fan.
Soundgarden and Singles and Euphoria Morning (the known spelling of the time) fandom didn't factor into my experience or interview with Cornell, though. He was one of my musical heroes, yes, but I didn't want to be that guy. I doubt he or his wife or bodyguard would have appreciated it, either.
So his muscle and his spouse stepped out and Cornell and I sat, me facing a wide expanse of Puget Sound mirroring a mostly clear sky, he facing the room perpendicular to me, and talked. He wore a t-shirt and jeans and black, loose-topped boots. He ran a hand through his (again long) hair occasionally. He cordially offered me a bottled water, answered questions, and let his eyes continually sink to the floor.
I was boring the guy. My agreed-upon time allotment was shrinking. Aside from personal, mind-blown awe at the circumstances, I wasn't getting much juice. I hadn't asked anything to elicit a thoughtful, sincere, weighty response from an artist whose gravitas and voice alone had helped change the world.
Not exactly diverging from my planned questions but jumping forward without a graceful segue, I said something about how Scream and Euphoria Morning were alike in that they took you somewhere you didn't expect Chris Cornell to take you. He looked up. He leaned forward from his reclined (disinterested?) pose on the sofa. His eyes widened and locked on mine. The energy in the big, quiet room suddenly zagged like a gull—many of which circled and darted beyond the long wall of windows—spotting a potential snack.
Cornell was engaged.
We talked. He had a lot to say then, and all of it, as far as I could tell, was thoughtful and sincere.
My allotted time vaporized and we continued talking. His bodyguard returned from a side door and we continued talking. Finally, his wife stepped in from an adjoining room and, after we talked for a minute or two longer, she politely sent me on my way. But not before noting that she knew we'd had a good conversation simply because I was still there.
I gathered my notes and things. I shared my gratitude. I left the suite after shooting a last surreptitious look back through the door at Cornell, whom I'd not asked to sign anything, whom I'd not admitted any allegiance to. He was already face-down in his phone, on to the next thing, or maybe just seeking.
When Cornell died in 2017, I couldn't help but think about my 75 minutes or so with the man. How he was clearly driven to create and expand. How he hadn't aimed for surprise but for enrichment, hadn't been trying to prove anything to anyone other than himself. How acknowledging that allowed for a solid, albeit brief, connection to the artist. For precious few moments, we'd seen each other.
The music Chris Cornell left behind—all of it—is timeless. The impression he left on me, not so much. Though that's only because I have an eventual end date just like he did. In the meantime, I'll think about him often. Not just when I hear his voice napalming from a speaker, but whenever I consider the act of creation itself. Whenever I talk with my son about being true to himself.
Whenever I write.
One Thing I Know: I Wrote the Book on Pearl Jam's Vs.
When Pearl Jam’s second album was released, I was just starting college and had no idea what I was going to do with my life—or, more fundamentally, who I was or what I wanted to be.
Twenty-seven years later, I have a pretty solid feel for those things. Still haven’t woken up one morning to realize I was living the life I'd been aiming for, but how often does that really happen? I’m not doing nearly as much writing as I’d like at the day job, and not doing enough on my own time, either, but I’m still steering my ship. Still harboring dreams. Still able to string a few words together when I get the chance (and thankful for every opportunity). And as of today, this little book exists that proves it.
Feels weird, but I guess I can call myself an author now.
I’ve also written a few supplemental pieces that publisher Bloomsbury is posting on their blog next week. They may be right up your alley if you’re a glutton for PJ-related punishment, and the blog is a good place to start if you’re curious what the 33 1/3 series is all about.
With this work now in the rearview, I hope to forge ahead on other extracurricular writing this year. Right now, I’m feeling fiction, but we’ll see. One day I may wake with an urge to do something else larger-scale around music. There’s so much there I’d happily dive into. And if I do start to feel the ship turning of its own accord, or stalling out, or listing, I’ll read the latest of my son’s works. Kid’s already got the writing bug.
I won’t change direction, and I won’t change my mind.
Creating (or Not) in the Time of COVID
I haven’t written much lately. Not for work, not for myself. My son’s few paragraph-long stories for school have eclipsed my output of the last month, probably. Aside from a freelance gig and proofing my 33 1/3 book, I just haven’t been feeling it. Despite being home all the time, despite staring at the computer much of the time. And with each passing day, the not-feeling-it feeling has grown stronger.
This stalling out is a byproduct of the current state of things—all the things—without question. I’ve allowed myself that excuse for some time. But that permission hasn’t made my lack of interest any less frustrating... or pervasive. I cut myself slack, I feel guilty, I rinse and repeat. And I’m sure I’m not alone.
Yesterday, though, something changed. It was as sudden as it was unexpected. It was Jason Isbell talking about what his and Amanda Shires’ life looks like these days during an NPR Tiny Desk (Home) Concert.
“It’s been a little difficult,” Isbell said of staying at home through this pandemic. “We haven’t gotten to do the thing that we feel like we were born to do.”
Whoa. I paused the video at that point and let the performer’s words sink in. On the surface, Isbell’s statement was simple and straightforward. He and his wife (Shires) haven’t been playing with fellow musicians or performing for live audiences. For people who do that kind of thing for a living, that must indeed be difficult. It also isn’t unlike millions of other peoples’ situations right now—they’re out of work, or can’t work, or just can’t focus on any single thing for more than two minutes. (Raise your hand if you’re like me and two or three of those cases apply.) I get it.
But Isbell’s sentiment went much deeper than that, went far beyond not being able to take a stage outside of he and his wife’s barn or in an empty auditorium. He said that they can’t do what “we were born to do.” They can’t do the one thing they believe they are on this planet to do. They can’t fulfill their purpose. (Not counting parenting, of course.)
Right! He put words to the creeping, tide-like malaise I’ve felt through these months of epic weirdness and isolation. The one thing I do well, the one thing I love to do, the one thing I can contribute to the world—can’t do it. For different reasons, of course, but the bottom line is the same: the audience isn’t there. (In my case, that’s an employer, its brand, its audience.)
Isbell went on to say that one thing he’s doing regularly instead of performing before crowds is sitting on the floor and playing guitar. “It makes me happy,” he said. “It keeps me sane.”
That honest statement illuminated our divergent paths. Isbell and Shires have kept at their crafts (with the latter even learning how to record using Pro Tools); I’ve found other things to do. (Thank you, MLB TV.) They’ve continued to play instruments, to sing, to write songs; I’ve ignored the complete novel that needs another read-through. They’re doing regular streaming performances, releasing sets digitally, actively putting work out there. (Shires’ latest song, “The Problem,” is a philanthropic effort. Proceeds from purchasing the track, a difficult and touching exchange—with Isbell—about abortion, benefit reproductive justice organization The Yellowhammer Fund.) I’m indulging every distraction. They’re creating. I’m not.
Well. Isbell’s words jarred me awake.
Writing makes me happy. Writing keeps me sane. (Or at least I hope it will. Because things aren’t going to morph, suddenly or gradually, into some semblance of what they were anytime soon.) Why the hell am I not doing the one thing I can with that kind of steadying, restorative power? Why have I wallowed in despair—that’s an overstatement, but I haven’t exactly been surfing a rising tide of optimism—and repeatedly ignored or quashed a low-level urge to return to the page?
Well, no more. I was born to do this. Not doing it won’t help me improve. Not doing it won’t keep me sane.
Thanks for the motivation, Jason and Amanda. Keep the music coming. People need it.
From Furlough to Freelance & Oddball to Author
I don’t typically air private stuff or participate in self-promotion, but it’s a bizarro world. Norms are out the window. I have a couple of significant professional/personal developments to report—one not so good, one way better—so I’m going to temporarily step outside of my comfort zone and report them.
The first is hardly unique in this epic disaster of a year: I’ve been furloughed from my role at Health Perspectives Group. Perhaps all too predictably, the patient engagement business has slowed due to the fact that people aren’t exactly able to engage in person these days. Budget cuts, business shifts—it’s the atonal yet catchy chorus of 2020. I may get the job back (and that would be wonderful; I’ve really enjoyed my time there), but I’m not holding my breath.
What I am doing is considering a serious run at freelance work. I’ve done a lot of it in past years, of course, but not previously pressed fully into the effort, pitched for work, etc. Now it may be time to look through/beyond my immediate colleagues and contacts and pursue work through a platform like Upwork. Maybe.
I’m methodically feeling it out, as that’s my nature. I’m open to suggestion, persuasion, cautionary tales, all of the above.
The second piece of news is about as far away on the Crap <—> Kick-Ass spectrum as you can get: my book on Pearl Jam’s Vs., a volume in Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 series, has a publish date. Yes, on March 11, 2021, you too can pore over the fiery, pointed, brilliant record that I’ve pored over for the last 18 months or so.
Or is it more like 25+ years? Back then, my enthusiasm for the Pacific Northwest-carved guitar-rock style labeled “grunge” struck people as odd. My long hair, my flannel, my thermal underwear under shorts. It was arid California, after all. And I didn’t play a guitar (or anything else). Didn’t even know anyone who did. Well! The era (and my hair) may be long gone, but my appreciation of the music (and flannel) continues. And you can pre-order the proof from Bloomsbury and Amazon. (Up yours, Imposter Syndrome.)
Here’s hoping we’re all still around in spring of 2021 and have a few hours to spare for pleasure reading.
In the meantime, I’ve got more writing to do. Let me know if I can do any for you.
10 Records of 2019 That Spoke to My (Aging, Anxious, Hippie-fying) Soul
Inside the vinyl gatefold of Sturgill Simpson’s Sound & Fury, above several other records discussed here.
Could my twenty-five-year-old self hear my favorite albums of 2019, he would say something like, “What have you become, dude?” Yes, my tastes have changed more this year than in the last twenty combined. It’s my personal equivalent of global warming reaching its irreversible tipping point, American democracy suddenly galloping toward history, Christians knee-jerking from—well, you get it. It’s been a strange year for my listening habits. Never before have I been so taken by such varying acts and albums. Not since my childhood have I spent so many hours with country music. And not since ever have I been so concerned about the direction of this country, which also influenced what I listened to in 2019. That doesn’t mean I was drawn solely to music with a message; vocals actually proved the least necessary musical ingredient, with so many of my favorite albums heavy on atmosphere and ambiance rather than words and verses. If these trends continue, well, I don't know what I'll be into five years from now. And that lack of predictability is refreshing. (An uncertain American future, however, is not.) Dude, indeed.
10. Not Waving & Dark Mark - Downwelling
I eagerly seek out everything Mark Lanegan does. The frequent, eclectic collaborator strays perhaps as far as ever from his psych-rock Screaming Trees beginnings with this effort pairing him with electronic producer Not Waving (Alessio Natalizia). Here the eminently stoic "Dark Mark" actually sounds vulnerable at times, lending his stormy, poetic, authentic lyrics to equally moody, yet synthetic, soundscapes. Think industrial rhythms, chains dragging on pavement. The mashup is haunting, and because it's so different, stands apart from this year's also quite good (but more typical of his recent solo work) Somebody's Knocking.
9. Fangclub - Vulture Culture
I don't know if this Irish rock trio (Steven King, Kevin Keane, Dara Coleman) was inspired by early Silverchair and Nirvana and other notable bands of the grunge era, but it sure sounds that way. There's a raw nostalgia at play in the crunchy guitar-centricity of these songs, as well as a wry, dystopian point of view that echoes some of the best music of that time. But that's not to say Vulture Culture is derivative; it's a wholly successful, fresh set of songs that reflects a longing for human connection, as well as the pessimism and urgency of civilization's current troubled times. It's anthemic, emotive rock at its best.
8. clipping. - There Existed an Addiction to Blood
I've listened to this album just five times. While it may seem ridiculous to put something on this list that I haven't spent many hours with, I urge you to give this a listen. It's such a critical, heavy, avant-smart creation (by Daveed Diggs, Jonathan Snipes, and William Hutson) that you don't need to have it on repeat to feel its impact… and yet, with each listen, more depth, more lyrical wizardry, is revealed, as with slowly turning a kaleidoscope. With its cinematic horror-genre atmospherics and verses, intermittent harsh noise, and varied, melodic refrains, Addiction to Blood quickly seeps into your psyche, then lingers like a grisly nightmare (even if you don't tune in for the somehow entrancing 17-minute closer, "Piano Burning," which is solely the creepy sounds of apparently just that). In the best possible way. No doubt the sixth listen will be even more powerful.
7. The Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience
And now for something just a bit lighter. The Lonely Island's members (Andy Samberg, Jorma Taccone, Akiva Schaffer) established themselves as comedic musical geniuses years ago, but unlike some humor-based artists, their intelligence and shtick continue to resonate with each record. This effort marries the act's slick beats and raunchy rhymes with baseball—specifically, 1980s Oakland A's baseball. Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire baseball. Steroid-era baseball. This album (accompanied by an equally hilarious short film) is an entertaining treat for anyone who appreciates hip hop and pop constructions, and in typical Lonely Island fashion, is better than much of the actual music of those genres. But for long-time baseball fans? It's pure gold.
6. The Highwomen - The Highwomen
Once upon a time, I was into country music. Around that time, four male legends of the genre released their first Highwaymen record. It was memorable. This is more so. The voices (of Brandi Carlile, Amanda Shires, Natalie Hemby, and Maren Morris) are striking, poignant. The pointedly female-framed storytelling resonates authentically (without losing a sense of humor). The song "My Only Child" is an instantly timeless ode that requires repeat listening (for this parent of an only child, anyway). The Highwomen is something of a double-edged sword; it's so good that you can't passively listen. Find something else to fill your ears at work and in the car, and put this on when you have 45 minutes to digest every word and chord.
Not to play favorites with this accomplished quartet, but the record got me listening to Shires' solo work, and it is simply fantastic. I just may have played her 2018 effort, To the Sunset, a few more times than this record.
5. Duff McKagan - Tenderness
I wasn't won over by McKagan's front-and-center role in his band Loaded. His bass playing is of rock legend, but I didn't love his vocals. Well, maybe he just hadn't found the right genre. With Tenderness, he rides a rusted rail between old-school country and sincere folk delivery, covering a host of present-day societal concerns. The record feels like the most honest thing McKagan has created… perhaps ever. The faded-outlaw Shooter Jennings production suits the Guns N' Roses icon. As do the simple constructions. And the topical themes—homelessness, addiction, domestic violence. For a storied artist who's written much about "being a man" in recent years, this solo effort captures him living his definition. Taking a stand. Being vulnerable. Feeling emotion. Being responsible. It's a convincing, affecting sound for McKagan, and I hope he'll explore the dusty, barbed-wire tones further.
4. Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross - Bird Box
These two visionaries can seemingly do no wrong. There's Nine Inch Nails. There's one effective, immersive soundtrack after another. Then there's this accompaniment to the blindfold-centered Netflix suspense flick… and it's far superior, in the pulse-pounding and terrifying departments. You need not watch the movie more than once, but this world-building instrumental score begs for one play after another, despite pushing you to the edge of your seat, tensing your shoulders into an uncomfortable hunch, each time. The track titles ("Sleep Deprivation," "And It Keeps Coming") enhance the dangers-in-the-dark feel of the record, and the long-ish running times (up to nearly 13 minutes) generate inescapable dread that you'll welcome again and again. The original "abridged" score was incredible, but then Reznor & Ross released a supersized Bird Box vinyl box set (and stream) that imprints on the psyche—in all its sparse piano-y, whale song-y, deadly glory—for over two hours.
3. Billy Strings - Home
How does a 27-year-old dude write songs that authentically speak to the wistful, fearful mid-life mindset? How does he play country guitar as if his songs were speed metal? How does bluegrass even rise to this level for me? I don't have any of these answers, (though I think my gateway artists were likely Steve Martin and Neil Young). And so what? Strings' second solo record builds on the themes of his Turmoil and Tinfoil, reflecting on loss and mortality in a sincere, beautiful fashion that belies his years. Home also bears poetic commentary on our backward-sliding society, which feels a necessary ingredient for relevance these days, fair or not. This set of songs are alternately melancholic and fiery—and a couple of them at an epic seven-plus minutes—which also aligns with the general feeling of 2019. (Sample lyric: "We can turn this old familiar nightmare into a song.") Home is at once a warning message of what our species is destroying, a testament to Strings' irrepressible drive to create, and a love letter to human connection… all wrapped up in a blanket of interwoven traditional and modern bluegrass sounds (or at least my guess at what both are).
Strings and his band are a treasure. Now how about a pairing with Amanda Shires?
2. Tool - Fear Inoculum
I had no doubt that I'd like Tool's first record in 13 years. This band just makes music that I connect with. (Their records have always been go-tos when I'm feeling angry/driven.) But I also expected to be at least slightly disappointed, as is typically inevitable after so much waiting and hype and waiting some more. Well, Fear Inoculum induced zero disappointment. It's monolithic. It's a majestic tapestry. It's somehow the sum of the band's previous musical parts—and yet more, an evolution of its sound and exploration of its intensely calculated-jamming tendencies. The proper songs run 10–15 minutes and create their own worlds of space and time. The guitars are seemingly sentient, the drums galactic. I don't know crap about time signatures and the like, so the technical stuff all goes over my head, but this record just uniquely, incomparably rocks. Even when it doesn't. Even when it's pensive, spare, silly, and opaque. How will Tool evolve next? I can't wait to find out, but I'm sure I'll have to do just that.
1. Sturgill Simpson - Sound & Fury
Of all the curveballs on this list, my first pick is also the most difficult to categorize. Its seamless blend of hard rock, electronic, classic country and other elements makes for one unique, cathartic, and mind-blowing record. The fiery, retro-futuristic cover is a fitting image for what's packaged inside: a concept album of sorts, conveying a story of bad deeds, destruction, cronyism, cynicism, and macho ineffectuality. Maybe. Despite scores of listens, I'm not yet sure what Simpson is saying with his spacey and samurai metaphors, other than that art is a noble pursuit and people tend to suck. Perhaps a slanted take, but it feels partially right.
An animated Netflix film accompanied this record, and is worth watching (especially if anime is your thing), but the music and Simpson's inimitable drawl are the stars here. From the heavy instrumental beat of first track "Ronin" to the massive, fuzzy rock of closer "Fastest Horse In Town," Sound & Fury is an essential effort made by an artist clearly uninterested in straight-ahead genre work. Based on the trajectory of his three efforts to date, spanning a spectrum of solidly old-school country to whatever the hell this record is, Simpson will unabashedly continue pursuing his chameleonic art, which is unlike anything else I heard this year—or any year prior. It’s truly awesome.
But what about…?
Sleater-Kinney - The Center Won't Hold
I wanted to love this record long before it was released. I still don't. Not that it isn't solid, it's just too far afield from favorites The Woods and No Cities to Love for my taste. (Same can be said for former drummer Janet Weiss, unfortunately.) That's not to say acts should stick with what they're known for, but sometimes stretching results in a pulled muscle. I'm curious to see where Sleater-Kinney goes from here.
The Raconteurs - Help Us Stranger
This band has something the White Stripes didn't, something the Dead Weather don't, something Jack White on his own doesn't: uncanny, timeless familiarity. Usually, you hear one of their songs once, and it's like you heard it a thousand times on FM radio throughout your formative years. They create catchy folk-rock that feels simultaneously lived-in, real, nostalgic, fresh (and made with actual instruments). But their latest didn't do that for me.
Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real - Turn Off the News (Build a Garden)
On a list so twangy, surely this solid folk-fueled effort fits, right? If only more of the songs hit me like the title track, which may be my favorite song of the year—yes, above all those on the aforementioned records. It’s flat-out perfect for 2019, for a parent, for a wanna-be hippie. The record is a pretty feel-good affair, but “Turn Off The News (Build A Garden” is really something special. It feels good while making a statement. It sticks like the best songs do.
A Season of (Writing) Growth
The first day of spring seems a fitting time to mention a couple of major updates on my career. First, I’m writing a non-fiction book. Second, my day job is no longer straight marketing. In the former respect, I’m writing what I know, for a built-in audience. In the latter, I’m doing something I know next to nothing about, in an attempt to finally contribute—and I’m really excited about both opportunities to grow.
The book? A 33 1/3 volume on Pearl Jam’s Vs. If you know anything about me, you also know that my proposal being selected by the series’ publisher, Bloomsbury, is a huge honor. Though I’m contractually obligated to deliver the book, it still feels more daydream than reality. Me writing about a band I’ve loved since high school? Yeah, that’s a dream. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t major challenges in the work (not the least of which is carving out time to pen it), and it doesn’t mean my Vs. book is going to be a love letter. No, this is not fanboy stuff; it’s what I hope readers will agree is compelling scholarly reflection on a record that made a legendary band what it is today. It’s going to take a while, but I believe it’ll be worth the wait.
Speaking of waiting, I’ve been wondering how I might use my one solid skill to truly better others’ lives for years now. (Not coincidentally, the thoughts began nagging me shortly after my dad’s passing.) I’ve loved writing marketing copy all along, but selling social features and cell phones and investing tools and restaurant menu items was cultivating diminishing returns. So: now for something completely different.
Today I started at Health Perspectives Group. It’s a patient advocacy organization that helps people with serious health conditions make better-informed decisions about their pharmaceutical options. At least, that’s how I understand it after one shift. There’s a ton I don’t know about what they do, but it’s clear that they care about people and their well-being. And my contribution—consultation scripts, email, print materials—could help some of those people live better lives. Maybe that’s romanticizing it a bit, but HPG’s mission is one I believe in, and I hope to give patients who engage with them simple, clear information about their options… while I learn a whole bunch myself.
It’s going to be a busy spring. Here’s hoping there’s a bountiful harvest in the months and years that follow.