on Stockpiling & an Elephant

... Do I write songs?  Why yes, yes I do.  Only a gabillion of them.

But here is the thing, if a great song is written, and it sits in a journal, tucked in a pile of blank-page books, scribbled into with purple black pink pens, on airplanes, in hallways, in beds, backstage, in places all over the country, in times of good and bad and inspiration.. does that song exist? Does singing it out loud alone make it more alive? Singing it to others? To a room full of people? What makes it real? What happens when your art is no longer enough being just for you? What happens when it's about serving, sharing, giving? Is that where real art lives? Born in those books, but alive in the world.

I'm working on these questions, but what I know for certain so far, is that it doesn't matter if you write the most amazing songs in the world, if no one ever hears them.

And the refrain of 'someday, someday, someday' keeps playing on.