Fan Letters To Friends

I started writing this at 1am last night, sitting in my underwear eating granola. In no way am I looking to start a revolution of thought. It just seems that over the past few days I’ve been connecting dots, and that connection has come to a bit of a climax tonight as I was at Amanda Palmer’s gig last night.

Some of you may remember that I met Amanda for the first time at Canadian Music Week. She had just finished her interview and walked backstage — I was possessed in that moment, flashing my access all areas badge and skipping up the stage steps to follow her. We talked and I tried my hardest to organise my thoughts and not blurt out every question I’ve ever wanted to ask any musician who has actually been able to make a really decent living out of it. She asked where she could hear my music, I gave her my card and she inspected it, smiling. I didn’t ask for a hug, I didn’t ask for a picture, I gave her a handshake and she gave me a quick salute.

In preparation for her book release concert at Lee’s Palace I decided to burn a CD of my songs and write a little note inside telling whoever is listening to pass it on to someone else. I imagined my CD travelling the world, getting passed on from person to person, and each recipient finds a track amongst all those seventeen tracks that they really like and will want to keep forever. I wrapped the CD and accompanying note up in washi tape and craft paper and then realised that it probably won’t hold together on its imaginary journey between dozens of hands, so I wandered about the kitchen and then grabbed a zip-lock bag for that extra sense of security. It’s a CD wrapped in paper and tape and a zip-lock bag. I probably couldn’t get more DIY if I tried. I went to the concert — I laughed and cried and shouted and sang, and then I handed Amanda the CD. I told her she doesn’t even have to listen to the songs, just to pass it on to someone who will want to. She gave me a high-five.

I think we all tend to forget the extraordinary people who exist in our immediate vicinity. I have a plethora of friends who create art every single day, whether it’s illustrators I know or stand-up comedians or musicians or even people who aren’t actively pursuing a creative life. I also know indirect artists: people who create artistry in the clothes they wear, the way they string together sentences, the way they engage with others. There are so many people I know who I see every day, either in real life or online, who I am influenced by in some way. I look at my friends’ art. I listen to their songs. They all affect me and yet here I am burning a CD and writing fan mail for a woman who is going to engage with me for all of thirty seconds — whilst I’ve got a world of people who I can talk to for hours.

It’s also being in Canada which is a big part of it. For months I felt like I had to be on this grand search to find a friend who was musically talented enough to lift me up to their own lofty heights of musical wisdom and superiority. I made friends but was too quick to dismiss them when talking about my life here in generalities — “I haven’t made any real friends,” I would say over and over, which was a kick of sand in the eyes of people who had actually taken time to engage with me. Finally, I’ve reached a point where I realise that, as helpful or as nice it would be to be besties with the likes of Taylor Swift or whomever, I’d much rather grab a drink with someone I could cackle and gossip with like a twelve-year-old on a sugar-high.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is that I want to make myself and my music seen, and I want to engage with people who I feel have taken the time to see me, either directly or indirectly through their art. What I’ve been forgetting though, is that the people I surround myself with in real life are just as good as the artists and idols whose works seem to speak to me. My actual friends and acquaintances see me, think about me, are influenced by me every day, just as I am by them. Maybe I should be handwriting letters and burning CDs and wrapping them up in zip-lock bags for people a little closer to home.

But there’s also something else — it’s so easy to be vulnerable to an artist who’s sold millions of copies of their work, because they make a living from being vulnerable and open and accessible themselves. We get windows into their minds all the time. When it comes to people I actually know, for some reason I worry that being open and vulnerable and showing myself through art will make me seem weak. I mean, I’ve already realised that this year I’ve written over twelve songs about one person. Surely that’s a sign of weakness, right? And yet when Amanda Palmer was up on stage that night, singing with her ukulele the most heart-wrenching song I’ve ever heard, she had tears overflowing in her eyes and running down her face. I could hear my flatmate, Melissa, behind me, sniffing. And I was crying, too. I was crying for the agony and vulnerability of someone who was, essentially, a stranger to me. Amanda Palmer.

This year has been weird in that I feel like I’ve both been opened up and boxed in. I’ve put myself upon stages and told stories to strangers about places and people I’ve loved, I’ve spent a summer in a near-empty bedroom, writing songs about loneliness on a mattress upon the floor. I feel like I’ve learned a lot of things but I’m still trying to put them all together — and that’s how I feel about my thoughts after the concert. I think my conclusion comes to something like this:

• see the effort in things other people make
• let them know that you see what they are doing, and you appreciate it
• there are so many good people in your immediate circles
• reach out, don’t take them for granted
• be vulnerable

People around us are making things all the time. And even if they maybe didn’t have you in mind when they were making whatever they were making, if you find that their work speaks to you, then it has been made for you. Write fan letters to your friends. Share their work. Let them know you see them. Be open and vulnerable and honest and then… share your own efforts. Someone’s going to see it.