dear reader,

an introduction of sorts

I suppose it all started with my mother. The writing thing, that is. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to become a proficient writer without reading a lot of books—and boy did she read us a lot of books. Every morning after our Rosary, she would read to me and my sister of history, of science, works of fiction both grand and inauspicious. I feel, looking back, that even more important than the vocabulary workbooks, the grammar lessons, or the dedicated writing courses I have taken since—foundational, say, were those mornings we read together.

Not that I feel I can claim to be a proficient writer. That would involve my having written more than an occasional questioning journal entry in the past 5 years. (“Could it be that I am feeling this way because of poor habits or self-sabotage? No, I must just be misunderstood!”) Well, that and the grad school papers, which I like to think weren’t half bad. Creativity, like any muscle, must be trained on its specific applications to gain true mastery. My daily work has been, by training and design, one of continued creative output, but just because one is a well-rounded gymnast doesn’t mean they might excel at sprinting without practice.

Nonetheless, there has always been something in me that is freed by putting pen to paper. (To write words and punctuation, that is, not pitches and rhythms. Though both are good.) I’ve dabbled in poetry. I’ve started and then abandoned several blogs. (R.I.P.) I once started to write a novel in high school. It’s sitting somewhere on a hard drive I haven’t blown the dust from in ages, the physical pages long since lost to a succession of moves. But it’s there somewhere.

It can be easy, in writing, to presume that every attempt must be made in the pursuit of some Finished Product. This hasn’t constituted an issue in my musical career of nearly the same magnitude, least of all with the organ. Organ music is by its very nature and function inescapably improvisatory. When the sound bounces off the last pew for the last time, it’s gone. You will never play a piece or improvise upon a theme the same way twice. The written word, by contrast, can bear a permanence that feels mandatory. It’s the stuff of stone tablets and constitutional preambles. It may be quoted by others down through history with varying inflections and emphases, but the syllables arrive in the same order as before.

Perhaps this is an attempt to accept that writing can be transitory. This place. This “website”. I started out meaning to write an about page, and along the way this is what I ended up writing. That’s fine. Who knows if the Internet will exist as we know it in another 5 years. I certainly don’t. Ironically, the Thing that purported to connect us has us all feeling more disparate and alone than ever. But to anyone out there who might read this, I hope it feels human. I hope I say something worth saying. And if I do, I hope it serves to connect us, not to divide us.