Everything I write becomes a movie in my head. I’m not even sure which comes first – the words or the visions. But I always have both. I see my stories unfold. My characters take over and tell me what to write. I let them lead me. Inevitably, I find myself inside the movie with them. I can see everything. I can smell, taste, feel… and I can hear. I hear my characters’ voices. I hear their breaths, their footsteps, their screams, their laughter, their cries. And I hear music. Their music… my music… and music that becomes a character.
Music is a huge source of inspiration. A song, a whole album, or even just a few lines can throw me into a new story or revive an old one. A few years ago, I wrote a 50,000-word piece of fiction inspired by a single song. And I didn’t write it in silence. I never put myself in a quiet place to write. I can’t do it. I always have music playing. I think I need it. For the story… and for me.
I remember helping Mom in the kitchen when I was little. I can still smell her Nina Ricci L’Air Du Temps perfume. And I can still hear David Bowie coming from the old radio on the shelf. All of my memories have music attached to them. It’s part of the story for me, just as it is when I write.
I am not a musician. My singing is decent and I can still remember the piano recital piece I played when I was six. But that’s where my musical ability ends. I do have strong opinions about music, though. I don’t pretend to know what’s technically good or bad music or whether an artist truly has talent or not. I just know what I like. And what I like… is men.
Oh… but not just any men.
Men with guitars and powerful voices singing meaningful lyrics with intense emotion. It gets me every time. Every damn time. My God, I fall completely in love. And I become obsessed, usually with one artist at a time, losing all desire to listen to anything other than him… that one man who speaks to me… who sings for me. Until I find the next one. Oh, but I revisit. I never truly get over any of them.
I’m not sure what draws me to a particular artist… something just happens. It may happen the first time I hear him or it may happen unexpectedly after hearing him dozens of times. The only constant is genre. Never country music. I’ve never understood why it’s popular. If I hear the slightest twang of country, I’m out. I loathe country music. And cowboy hats. Just… no.
For the love of all that is desperate and beautiful, I grew up loving The Smiths and The Psychedelic Furs.
My current obsession is Hozier. He tells stories. And he does it beautifully. He stands there with his guitar and… God, his voice. I melt. Emotional… passionate… heartbreaking. I adore it.
I have been listening to him, and only him, for weeks. Some days, it’s only one song… again and again. Repeat. Repeat. I’m a junkie. I can’t stop. I can’t get enough. I am desperately in love with his music – his voice, his lyrics, his guitar playing, his hands, his arms…
I think my guitar fetish is a result of my forearm/hand fetish. I love this part of a man. I think it’s my favorite part. (Well… yeah, let’s go with that.) Arms. And a voice… a deep, beautiful voice. And arms. Hands and fingers… and arms. Oh.
I need to replay that one song… right now.