In trying to change up the types of books I read, I picked up Scott Weiland's autobiography from the library. Y'all know Weiland, right? Frontman for Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver? Anyway, I grabbed his book, "Not Dead & Not For Sale" hoping to get some clarity on what went wrong with him and Velvet Revolver- a band I was totally in love with- that would make him walk away.
At first I was only interested in reading the sections that discussed VR, but I kind of dug the spazzy way in which the book was written so I started from the beginning. What a life he's led so far! And you know when someone is described as having an artistic soul? Yeah, they're absolutely describing Weiland. Reading his thoughts on the different happenings of his life, and the people who came and went, is mesmerizing.
When I got to the point where Weiland describes his and Dean DeLeo's acoustic performance of "Plush" on MTV's "Headbanger's Ball" I immediately googled the clip because I remembered seeing that when it first ran and absolutely falling in love with this band. Weiland's voice was so powerful and DeLeo's playing was so soothing- it was everything "Headbanger's Ball" was not and that made the performance stand out to me.
Googling that clip obviously made me play other STP songs, and that led to Pearl Jam songs, then Nirvana, then the Cranberries, until I had worked myself into a dark cloud of artistic yearning. You creatives know the feeling- when there's something in you that wants out but your current situation or environment won't allow its freedom.
See, most of the writing I've completed to date was written during my darkest hours, with Weiland and his grunge cohorts as my soundtrack. I suffered from Teen Angst well into my 20s. And I would spend so many hours listening to this music as I poured out my sorrows on paper. From that was born many a troubled character and I loved it.
But now I'm not as deeply depressed. I actually like myself a little bit and there's a lot more sunshine in my life. The downside of all that, of course, is that the dark cloud was always my muse. The dank, rainy days helped me create and the downward spirals gifted me page upon page of beautiful words. Today, with all my happiness and natural highs, I can't seem to find the key that will unlock an avalanche of literature from my mind.
So like the artist that fears a sober life will affect his craft, I don't know how to feel good and write great stories. I play those old songs and I long for the level of creativity I used to have, regardless of how immature and soul-stealing it was. These great days have not created any new characters and won't let me expound on the old ones. I cannot find a new muse.
I'm hoping that by the time I finish Weiland's tome, he'll have some answers for me.
*smooches...stuck in the middle of what was and what could be*
if this keeps up, I'm taking up drinking, sex & hot wings again AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME!