There are people who validate—and there are people who criticize. From my vantage point, I’m of the opinion that there are more of the latter than the former—but there are certainly a significant number that live in that first category—they make building people up rather than tearing them down a priority.

I’m trying to spend more time with the validation crowd than with the critical set. I also know firsthand that being validated can carry you forward for days and weeks, while being criticized (whether valid or even offered in a constructive manner) makes you want to run and hide. It totally sucks and drains whatever energy you had at that moment.

I know plenty about laboring in obscurity while following my passion and rarely, if ever, receiving compliments or recognition. It’s what I’ve been doing for most of the past twenty years as a writer.

During that period, I think I can number on both hands the people that I’d consider real fans or people who’ve taken the time to routinely acknowledge a blog post I’ve written, or mention one of the numerous articles I’ve had published, or tell me they’ve read one of my books. One of these is someone who I don’t know very well. She’s also a wonderful writer and we see each other maybe two times a year. But a month ago she was in a town in Maine and walking by a book shop. She happened to see my Moxie book. She took the time to send me an email when she got back to Portland and let me know that and reminded me that she knew I was still out here.

During the summer of 2018 I decided I wanted to play the guitar, or maybe, play it better. Part of the reason I wasn’t progressing with my playing is that I didn’t play regularly. Actually, prior to the start of the adult ed class I enrolled in, my guitar had been sitting in the case collecting dust for more than two years. Yet, I was inclined to sign-up with a talented musician and instructor.

Then, my SI joint decided to make simply moving a major task. After one initial class, I was unable to continue.

There’s a silver lining to taking a class that I surely didn’t get maximum value from enrolling in: attending that one class reminded me that I wasn’t totally bereft of skills. I’d played enough that I had a vocabulary of basic chords and I could navigate simple chord changes and rudimentary progressions. Oddly, I went expected to be the worst guitarist in the class. It turned out that I was probably the most advanced in what was advertised as an intermediate class. Still, I managed to “wash out” and I was discouraged. This and physical pain and immobility being heaped atop a mound of fallout from the grief of losing Mark compounded what was a very difficult summer of feeling isolated and alone.

How the hell did I find my way forward from there?

On Sunday morning, enjoying my initial cup of coffee, I thought about that. Saturday, I recorded a lo-fi version of a song I wrote called “Upside-down World.” It’s very different than the more mellow, indie-folk style of “Walking Down the Road.” The new song is a three-chord stomper that probably comes from my penchant for punk and the indie-inspired music I still love to listen to. There might even be influences of Neil Young’s “Greendale” period in the tune.

Several weeks back, I began playing to drum tracks periodically when practicing. I’ve found a bunch of great tracks including some by a guy named Jim Dooley. I’m grateful that he’s made these available. I found a 125 BPM (beats per minute) rock track that I played over. It’s perfect for the song and really adds a rock feel to the rudimentary recording I made and posted to SoundcCloud.

Two weeks ago, we had a party at our house. It’s hard to live and feel normal after devastating loss. I think it’s even more difficult to get back to doing things that used to matter, even temporal things like asking people to come over and see a new house.

In the past, we’d always feel like if we were having people over, we wanted them to enjoy themselves. Entertaining and hosting a gathering seems to be a holdover from a time that’s long gone—and I’m not talking about a time when Mark was still with us, I’m talking about an era when people valued seeing one another and actually cultivated coming together. There’s an entire cottage industry of writing that addresses the loss of connection and doing things communally that I’ve come back to on this blog time and time again.

Part of me that entertained a notion that perhaps I’d roll out my song I’d written for Mark, “Walking Down the Road.” But, I’m still a little uncertain about playing live. I’m not comfortable enough as a performer yet, to simply grab my guitar and start singing. I’m not sure some professional musicians are, to be honest.

One dear friend, who I met when I was writing my first book, asked if I’d play my song—she said she’d like to hear it. The two of us have been dealt some tough hands since we used to see each other regularly while working in the same community. The geography that separates us makes getting together a rarity, but something to treasure. I’m grateful that we’ve remained connected and in touch, even if it’s often by email or phone these days.

When I played, I noticed that people were listening. Some were moved. I got to play it in front of other people. I made few mistakes, but I was happy I got to perform it.

A friend of my wife told me she was surprised that I had such a good singing voice. Another said my singing reminded him of Gram Parsons. This was validation I needed.

My goal is to take my music out to an open mic in October or November. That’s the next logical step. Maybe a few friends will be motivated to come out and cheer me on.