10,000 Hours
Sometimes I feel invisible. I am a singer/songwriter who has yet to write a hit. I go to a party and when you ask what I do I tell you: I wake up every day and write songs. It’s like breathing.
But then you ask, “Have you written anything I’d know.” This makes me want to lock myself in the bathroom and stay there for a while. In the dark. I know someday I mighthave an answer that will impress you…but tonight I don’t. I hate that f*cking question. Although tomorrow it will make me stronger. It will make me work harder. Go deeper. Maybe I’ll write about how alone it feels in the bathroom.
I know you mean no harm and that it’s just small talk. Me—I always hated small talk. I decided a long time ago, when in Hollywood, if someone tells me they’re an actor, I won’t ask them if I might know any movies they’ve been in but rather... ‘what keeps you busy?’ — just in case they haven’t made it past an audition. There’s dignity in that question and dignity in whatever the answer is. I don’t ever want to ask someone something that makes them want to run into the bathroom and lock the door. It sucks in there.
Cuz even tho I believe in myself, for the short while I’m sequestered I feel shitty. What comes to mind is Alessia Cara’s song, “Here.”— “What am I doing here?” I wish I were home in my pajamas. Home where…every night I Amp up my acoustic, stand in front of an SM58 and play to an audience of zero from the corner of my little room surrounded by purple lights. I get better every day. I swear I do. By leaps and bounds. I’m in the middle of my 10,000 hours.
I sing to the talking heads on the muted TV on the wall. I sing to the cat if she strolls in. I sing to the picture of my Mom and Dad on my desk. They never said I was crazy. They never suggested I do something different. Someday I’ll be able to tell them that I went to another party and finally hadan answer to that f*cking question: ”Yes! I HAVE written something you’d know!” And in the middle of the party my song came on and a girl came over and said “omg, you wrote that? That’s my jam.” I’ll be able to tell my folks that eventually, I wrote a song that got nominated for a GRAMMY and a book that told of all these indignities. You get through them—you do.
So yes, I feel invisible today. But every day I become a little less transparent.
And yes, I am anonymous, but one day, perhaps in my 10,000th hour, you will know my name.
I am one of the millions of tiny cars you see on the highway down below from the window of a plane. But every day I get a little closer to the sky.
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