Artists—painters, poets, novelists, composers, playwrights too—for the most part, share one trait. Prolificity. Following an opus (or a few), they—unless constrained by some cruel act of nature—replicate, it seems to me. They’d be better were they Whitman. Leaves of Grass’d until he'd passed. Single voice, single story. Not eleven, nine, or three.
For we’ve each our one-off soul, our sui generis experience, our thing to say, regardless if we choose to, or abstain, or lack the means. But once said—if it happens we’ve made saying it our trade—what to do? Kinda need the affirmation. Or the beans!
Never did make this my trade, but I did make it my purpose for a time. And at one point, had a hunch. Write a song for every day, on the premise, it’s the same days every year, it's just weather keeps reshuffling the bunch.
Any songwriter will tell you of the thousand songs they’ve written. They’re just too easily spun to give up on once begun. Writ about a hundred eighty. Then occurred to me that half the year, the night supplants the day. And decided I was done. Had no interest in that darker side. Turns out, fully half the half were darker anyway...
So I've winnowed the one-eighty down to fifty. Variations on that single voice, that single story. One.
Though, I'm working on a play…