When I am writing my music, I feel like I am communicating more clearly and louder than I ever have in my life. It is a fusion of the creativity of poetry and song, except that the words have a tone, an urgency, and an energy—a voice, my voice. There is no misunderstanding what I mean. It is a direct line to my soul; I am naked on a canvas. A true songwriter is a true artist, in this sense.

I’m not famous, and I definitely don’t make money off of my music. Hell, I might not even be good at it—yet. The yet is the part that keeps me going in everything I do. I was raised to believe that I could do anything I wanted to do, and life has taught me that I can do most things that I want to do (I never got drafted into the NFL, shocker). Regardless, I approach obstacles as possible until proven otherwise. And, sometimes, the journey in being wrong can feel so right.

I wrote my first song almost a year ago today. I’m a little late in the game, but my can-do-anything attitude got me learning guitar about two years ago, so it makes sense when you put it in the perspective of my talent timeline. I wrote it in the car. I was driving to Memphis with love on my mind. And I just started singing it. I slowly added more rhymes and structure to it. Then, I recorded what I had in a voice memo on my iPhone. I barely even killed anyone that night driving. Don’t worry. I was responsible and didn’t pull out my guitar until I got to Memphis.

This is how my music generally comes to me. I need to be in the right place to where I can think of nothing but a feeling or an emotion. Sometimes, I get there without even realizing that I’m there, and, then, bam, something insistent comes to me, and it becomes a line in or title to one of my songs. The only time that I’ve been able to sit down and write a song without something nagging at me was when I decided to write a song for my momma for Mother’s Day. She is a different sort of inspiration altogether, I suppose. Mom’s do that to a guy.

When I have an idea come to me, it ends up here, in my book. My handwriting is horrible, and the organization often has arrows going all over the place to move lines and verses around; writing is not a linear process, after all.

I would love to witness and document another person making music, and, yes, I know this would be the equivalent of tagging along on their wedding night to watch as their nuptials come to an intimate close. One day, I will get a chance to do this, and I will share it with you. Oh, and I want to watch some one write music, too . . . In the meantime, this is how I wrote “Mending Our Wall.”

The line, “The sun cannot set without mountains to hide” haunted my thoughts for a day or so. It has such beautiful imagery and meaning to it. It sparked the theme for this song, and it was the first thing I put to paper. You see, I was in one of those reflective states: I wasn’t on speaking terms with my best friend, and I wanted desperately to fix what was wrong between me and my ex-girlfriend so that she could still be a part of my life (I know, foolish. I’m a hopeless optimist).

This led me—naturally—to the first lines I wrote. I had to do something with them. I felt an enormous weight of regret for my part in mending these walls, now that I knew them for what they were. I felt my mortality. YOLO, and I wanted to live for once. And I had hope and courage again. The artistic journey had brought me here:

I finished this song that very night, and the next night, I had my friend over to apologize over a beer. And, that week, I even texted to my ex . . .

Sony Walkman Cassette Player: a black box the size of three iPhone 5s stacked on top of each other; a machine that tore through AA batteries like a US bank and government bailout money; and a portal into my love for music.

Welcome to the ‘90s. You weren’t cool if you didn’t have one clipped on to your blue jean shorts while you walked around chomping on some Big League Chew. I wasn’t cool. I was far from whatever cool meant, but I had one anyway, pulling down the waist of my hand-me-down denims to my thigh. I didn’t need to be cool; I had my escape—my music.

I remember that Christmas well. I found the present I had been looking for all morning, and I tore and ripped at the delicate red paper keeping it from me. I could feel the outline of that bulky, black beauty, and I had to have it--now. And then there was that hard, clear plastic wrapped around it tightly, showing me what was mine and mocking my desires. Scissors. I ran with them. I cut into it, and I pulled through the jagged edges around the mediocre opening I had made and touched my prize . . .

A tape. I needed a tape. Santa Clause had brought me the new Weird Al album, Alapalooza. I ran over to the pile that was my Christmas haul, and I grabbed it. What is the deal with all of this packaging? Nothing was happening fast enough for me. Finally. I slid it out and put it in my Walkman. Batteries. My flashlight didn’t need them anymore, so I shook them out and put them into my new toy. In the coming days, nothing would need its batteries except for my Walkman.

I pressed play, pulled apart my headphones, and put them over my ears: “Jurassic Park” blared through the headphones, and, suddenly, everything slowed down. Christmas kept happening around me, but I didn’t notice. For the first time in my life, I was in control of not only the sound around me but music, too. It felt powerful. Siblings arguing? Dad yelling? Nothing.

It’s not even close to my favorite Weird Al album, but it was my favorite escape. That’s where I met the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “Bedrock Anthem” was my favorite song on it, and I didn’t know it, but I was listening to my favorite band—kind of.

All of us kids loved Weird Al. We listened to him religiously, and it didn’t bother my religious parents. Did you know he made a movie?  UHF, look it up. I still quote it around my siblings. He is the anthem of my childhood. And guess who has tickets to see him this April? This guy! Kid me, meet adult me. I hope you enjoy each other.

I do own quite a few hats, and I do have a hat for every occasion--my ball cap for when it's warm and I run, my beanies for when I run in the cold, my artistic-power cap (I've got a picture of me in this on here), my beanies that my ex-girlfriend knitted for me, etc., and that's as good a place as any to stop talking about my hats. You get the point. I own them: I wear them. I'm over it.

If you haven't gotten it, yet, the hats are a metaphor, of course (not to insult your intelligence). I wear many hats. They are easy to change out. They fit the mood; they fit the task. I've never met someone like me--siblings excluded. I've always been a contradiction. Like an Alanis Morrisette song: I'm short, but I'm tall. I'm a geek, but I play ball. How many high schoolers do you know that have a job, are president of the chess club (a board one player), sing in choirs, play varsity football, and still have time to work for NASA? I mean, I did a lot more than that, and maybe I'll write about that sometime, but going on about it right now just sounds like bragging, so I’ll stop. If you want to know more, there is a good article about me published in Missouri State's FGB Times.

The real point is that I enjoy my many talents, and I wear each hat with pride, knowing that I only get to wear it for a short time before it's time to change it out for another one. I wouldn't have it any other way. I was born with a lot of abilities, and this world doesn't get to tell me to pick just one or two for the rest of my life. I'm far too intelligent. Participate? Yes. Conform? No.

This will be the theme for my blog. It is a record-keeping site for my self-development journey. I will explore who I already am and who I want to become. Some of the things you will have the chance to follow me doing are: writing more music and explaining the creative process behind what I’ve already written; learning Spanish, Italian, and French; reading new books; developing and enhancing my physical health through workout and diet; working toward professional goals; writing about language; learning to play piano; exploring Mother Earth; and exposing my world views through creative writing.

These are just a few of the big ones. My interests are ever changing. If I can find the time, I want to learn to dance. I know that you’re asking yourself, “Rob, I’ve seen you dance. You are a machine. What do you mean?” I mean that if I am to become a real-life version of the Most Interesting Man in the World, I need to be able to tango, salsa dance, two-step, etc. I don’t take a superlative adjective like most lightly. I am the comparative adjective better than that. Read about it.

Stay tuned this next week as I . . . (and the dot-dot-dots strike again).

I'm sure you're asking yourself . . . 

No, I'm not obsessed with hats. Ties, maybe. And yes, by the way, I did drop an ellipses in the first sentence of my first paragraph. I am bringing dot-dot-dot back. It existed way before Seinfield's "Yada-Yada" episode. That yada-yada crap doesn't come close to omitting quite the way that the dot-dot-dots do. You can also call them . . . s (that's the plural noun form for them in geek speak) or Ellipses. Seriously, it's so liberal and free in all the ways you can use it to omit information that it's basically European. Read a book. Or better yet, go to a favorite of mine and read online: Grammar Girl on the Ellipsis.

I can't wait to have a girl tell me that she likes my . . . s, and I'd be willing to leave that open to interpretation . . . 

I've been told that the way I spell, use grammar, and write, the way that sentences drip out from me in units; in words; in letters; and punctuation marks onto a page or screen, slowly enticing you to want more--is a turn on. I once texted a former Latin classmate of mine in a tone that is legal marriage in some countries, and it was all in Latin, back and forth. Oro, playa! That's to speak, in Latin. If you get this last joke, I guarantee that you think that my writing is sexy. You think that intelligence is sexy. It is a trait that you seek for in a mate. My hat is off for you, my ladies. And if that idea doesn't scream sexy to you, you are either a.) a relative of mine, b.) one of the exes I no longer talk to, or c.) not interested in what a man does when he isn't wearing his hat

Like all talents, not all knowledge is used for good. Sometimes it's French, sometimes it's Spanish. Sometimes it's Latin. Sometimes it's Nickelback (I just had to look up the spelling for them). I loathe their music so much. Seriously. They are a diluted, hear-no-evil concoction of talent and bad, at best. And at worst? Well, they are even worse when you watch their music videos, and do yourself a favor, or, better said, yet--if  you still enjoy having a quiet place in your soul that is free of the resulting memory of such a damaging experience as watching their videos--go ahead, then--and don't watch them . . . 

The dot-dot-dot even fixes bad transitions.

 . . . 

Sorry, my dog just bombarded me for attention, This blog would have been completely different from here on out if she hadn't just distracted me. She's adorable, and she's a family dog. Not in the sense that most people would think by name alone, though. She's a dog with a big family. When I see my friends from St. Louis, they ask about her like she is their niece. When I lived with my brother and my sister in-law, they got to have her when I had work, school, or schoolwork, which was a lot. Now, they have visitation rights to her. I even have college friends that still ask about her. I'm talking early-20s friends. I'm surprised that most of these people remember that they had their early 20s. It's so bad that one of my friends from college thinks that the early 20s--as one collective unit--is a huge conspiracy, something that the government made up, and that's why it's so blurry . . .  There, I did it again. You knew exactly what I had to say about that whole thing. I didn't even have to type it out. The point of that aside is that 2012 came and went. Most of us are still here and living today. I told you so.

Everyone adores this dog. I am biased, but there are a whole lot of people that are biased toward my dog, too. That's how it is. She's a hat all of her own . . . And, that, my friends, is the best way to use the ellipsis yet--when It goes without saying.