"Queen of Everything" is done. Pay attention to me!
I submitted the artwork and the music and everything else. TODAY. I want to tell you about this, but I don't know what to say, really.
So I'll tell you that the official release date is December 1. I will tell you this and amuse myself at the same time, because there is nothing "official" about anything I do in music. It's all a big guess. Half of my music "career" comes from my living room while I do laundry and wait for my son's Spider-Man underpants to dry.
This record means something to me, though... not that the first one didn't. But I never thought the first one would happen, so it didn't feel very intentional. It felt like a wonderful surprise. It felt like finding $20 in your jacket pocket.
This one was intentional. The songs were written with more confidence. And, I arranged them on this record to tell the story of the last two years of my life. I hope that doesn't reek of self-absorption and narcissism. But I suppose it might.
As a person who isn't keen on being vulnerable in the face-to-face, and as a writer who doesn't like to hurt anybody or be overly syrupy, there are things I can communicate in songwriting that I can't in any other medium. So here they come, on the backs of chords I can't name.
This one feels personally important. I started recording it in February. But I've been writing it with my life for two years.
The track list. I'll tell you that:
1. Queen of Everything.
3. Wooden Chairs. (You've never heard this one.)
6. Wild Things. (You've never heard this one, either.)
7. Time Again.
9. I'm Okay.
10. Wash Away.
Shipping this record off tonight felt... I don't know how it felt, so I'll tell you that I've been extra weird all night. Sad. But not in a morose way. You send off 2 years of your life, and you expect something to happen. The clouds will change color or one of your limbs will fall off. Something that marks BEFORE from AFTER.
But instead... It was Monday, and I did laundry and made soup.
My son turns 5 on Friday. I had a birthday party for him this weekend. There is a cardboard fort in the living room and a pile of rubber spiders on the dining room table.
I rehearsed for a music video Saturday. (I'm making one of those next weekend. Expect it.)
I had band rehearsal Sunday.
I'll play Little Big Fest this coming Saturday.
I'll go to work every day in between masquerading as a professional.
Nothing pauses or slows down. Time doesn't care what's important. It's all the same. Every minute in Big Moments has the exact same 60 seconds as every minute in Little Moments. No difference. So, plod along, little doggie.
I told a friend tonight that I couldn't tell if I felt sad because it felt empty or because it felt too full. Opposites are like that sometimes: Sometimes they feel the same. Equi-distant from zero.
I'm making much of little, which is also a problem. I should eat my soup and go to bed.
But the bottom line is: The record is done. It's in somebody else's hands now. And then it will be on my porch in a cardboard box. And then, hopefully, it will be in your hands. Or not. No pressure.
I'll be previewing songs over the next month, so I hope you'll stick around.