I have spent so much time writing in the last six months that I can no longer keep track of the number times I have changed lines, re-arranged parts, adjusted melodies, and generally questioned my self worth.
A white fender electric guitar sitting on the corner of my friend’s dorm room bed. I picked it up and pretended like I knew what to do. I started singing “Crazy Life” by Toad The Wet Sprocket, moving my hands up and down the fret board of the guitar, wishing that I knew where my fingers went.