During my songwriting drought, I’d pull up my old work from 15 years ago and linger. I was writing often back then, tracking in my small home studio and singing regularly. I started playing the acoustic guitar, trying to memorize chords and learn songs I liked.

Right around this time my spouse had a life-changing stroke. And part of processing this for me was committing myself deeper into work and music. Maybe to pretend that things hadn’t really changed. Maybe to pretend that we weren’t really that vulnerable. Maybe to keep my shit together. The truth is things change—and we aren’t invincible. Too much changed in me. In a couple years I found myself closing off even more than I already had. Hardly anyone noticed let alone myself.

I had about 70% of an album I titled Selfish, and later Krow Olos—“solo work” backwards—since Selfish felt asinine. It gives you an idea of what I thought about giving myself permission to make something of my own. I suppose you could call it Pulse of Avalon Version 0.1.

The songs from that most vulnerable time are revealing. Of course, I never released any of that music—I was pretty hung up on not sharing anything too personal, later rotting inside my own thoughts for over a decade. My lyrics at times were so abstract that they were foreign even to me. I lost it. Attempts were tainted by a painful reflex I couldn’t describe and didn’t want to.

Instead I released a “spa album”—you know, instrumental music vague enough to be generated by a cat standing on a keyboard. Enough space from my feelings to give the impression I was doing something musical. Soon I stopped making any music at all.

You let out a 10 or 15 year long sigh. If you’re lucky you start looking for answers again at some point.

I did—it wasn’t easy.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts about how “life got busy”. In reality, I chose a path of ignorance by loading up on distractions. Eventually, I was completely overwhelmed to the point my physical and mental health were both suffering and I struggled to find “fun” in anything at all. At least one person noticed by then. That seemed wrong. It was.

I’ve only been coming out of this coma for the past 18 months. What I realized is I have something to say and I’m still finding my voice. It’s not exactly that old voice—innocently echoing truths, buried in metaphors that somehow still work.

For now, I “trust the flow” [“Unseen” from the Debut Album 😉] wherever it’s guiding me, rather than getting hung up on a defense mechanism that’s managed to fail me for 15 years.

If you find yourself blocked—or not feeling joy like you used to—it’s ok to ask why and give yourself the time to figure it out. Life’s too short.