Yesterday, I drove past fields of white against a cold blue sky, scattered with wind turbines like ice giants. My playlist, a random mix dominated by the local bands I have known and loved over the years, lulled me into a sense of introspection.
When I was younger, I declared that local music was the salvation of the universe — said in a dry, understated tone for comic effect, of course. Nonetheless, I believed it. The bands I loved ranged from introspective roots rock to bagpipe jazz to Celtic rock fusion, and I loved their energy, their bravado, their desire to create a sound that wasn’t like every other band out there. At the same time I wanted them to become big enough so that other people could enjoy them, I feared what the corporate music machine would do to them.
I hit an epiphany somewhere north of Creston, IA, in the icy white afternoon through which I drove:
Why did I see self-publishing as different from what my friends in local bands went through?
Why did I see big contracts as something that would kill my friends’ spirit and creativity, but I didn’t see the parallels in my own life?
I don’t know how ready I am for self-publishing, but I am beginning to see it in a different way.
Words Like Me 