Just as a point of clarification, I did actually write at least two songs last year with my friend, Sammy. We were pretty pleased with them as well!
I guess what I meant yesterday was that it's been a long time since I felt that constant flow of ever-improving inspiration. Ten years ago, I was writing songs every month and I felt alive because of it. I'd sit at the piano and they'd tumble out of my heart.
In fact, I'm wondering whether I should set myself that challenge again - write a song every month that I'd be happy performing (or better, giving to someone else to perform) and see what happens.
Meanwhile, it's extra cold today. I walked to work through the frozen white of the morning frost. The low sunlight streamed through the mist and glinted from windscreens as commuters whizzed past me.
"Wrap up warm," my Dad had said as I did up my boots in the hallway. I stood up and pulled my coat on over a thick jumper and scarf.
"I may be some time," I said. He laughed.
It is beautiful though. The world sparkles on mornings like this. Even the bare and brittle trees seem artful against the wintry sun, as though posing for Klimt, sort of golden and ethereal.
Maybe I'm wrong about inspiration; maybe it doesn't come magically towards you, but you simply have to tune into it. Perhaps, like a radio signal, it's just there: invisible, inaudible and intangible until you learn how to adjust your frequency and translate it into the beautiful thing it could be.
And it could be really beautiful, couldn't it?
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