As I’m writing this I’m currently nestled under the trees between my college’s student center and library. Cardinals are chirping, the breeze is lightly blowing and pockets of people are circling all around me. Speaking of people, I just talked to a lot of them at the student fair which ended moments ago. Man was it hot out there. Totally worth it, though—I feel like I’m starting to get the college experience I came here for. The amount of groups, clubs, organizations, frats, events, and general hoopla can be overwhelming, but it’s a good overwhelming. At this point in my life, I believe I need a healthy dose of overwhelm.
Amidst the sea of students I traversed for the past hour, I spotted an old friend of mine. She’s been a gigging musician for years like myself, and in days past we used to share second homes in the form of local music venues. We had a great time catching up and sharing why on earth each one of us ended up going to the same college and majoring in something other than music. She’s in PR and I’m in information systems, by the way. 17-year-old us would have clutched our pearls at that thought!
We figured out quickly that we share a lot of the same internal monologue surrounding why we are here and what we want out of our creative lives. This got me thinking…
I should share my college application essay here.
Why you might ask? Well, number one, so someone may actually read it (because the admissions officers certainly don’t), and number two, because it encapsulates a lot of what I talked to my friend about. Albeit a lot more flowery. What’s more, there’s probably still some mystique about my whole college deal to a lot of people in my personal life. I’ll definitely be talking MUCH more about my thoughts and experiences regarding college as time goes on (I have four years to do it), so this is just a bit of a stage-setter.
And here it is:
DRIVING FORCES
On one unassuming summer day in 2016, a twelve-year-old sat down with his guitar to write his first song. That unaware young writer had no concept of what being an artist meant. Was it someone who stood on a stage surrounded by thousands of cheering fans? Was it someone who got constant radio play? Was it someone who had a shaggy haircut?
That young writer was me. It wasn’t long before I had convinced myself that being a real artist was synonymous with filling those arenas and getting that radio play. Alas, I was far from radio-ready. I had the hair, and that was it. That was okay, though. The goal had been set. I spent the next five years trying to meet that goal, and in that time I developed my biggest fear in life: that I would someday grow old and never get the sweet taste of fame.
My second biggest fear in life was driving a car. For every gig I played in order to chip away at my big break, someone was always driving me. That chauffeur service ended when I was signed up for driving lessons. Cut to me sitting behind the wheel of a moving car with a man I don’t know riding shotgun. It wasn’t long before the conversation drifted into the only topic I knew how to break the ice with: music. However, this man knew too many obscure artists and albums. It was clear this man had been in the industry for a long time.
Indeed, my suspicions were correct. After a discussion that distracted me more than I should have been while learning to drive, one searing question was on my mind. “Why are you teaching kids how to drive if you’re such an impassioned career musician?” After explaining the concept of needing to pay bills to my seventeen-year-old self, the man said two statements that made a lasting impact: “Music stays with you forever,” and the final blow, “Go to college.”
I did not follow his advice. A real artist wouldn’t go to college. However, during those college-less years I never forgot about what the man in the car said. I got older. I could finally drive. The most important development, however, was that my views on artistry started to change. I watched my friends grow up alongside me, get jobs, take on new responsibilities, all while creating just the same. It became clear to me over time that artistry is a way of being and reacting. An input and output of worldly data. A function. An artist has no way to turn it off. It’s not the trophy cabinet, the radio plays, or even the hair. I looked at all the creatives I knew. All walks of life, all kinds of careers, all ages. All artists.
Another realization I’ve had in my adulthood is how much I love learning. Once I destroyed the mold of “artistry” I was trapped in, I discovered that music is not all there is to enjoy. Music will stay with me forever. I found myself studying topics in my free time that the teenage me would have scoffed at. He probably wouldn’t think I’m a real artist, and he would surely be horrified at my current life decision: to go to college. The man in the car, on the contrary, would be happy.
Leonard Cohen once said that art is the evidence of a life, the ashes of something that has burned well. As I continue to grow older and freely explore who I am and what I’m interested in, my true desire is to fill my life with as many new ideas and experiences as I can. College is, at its core, the springboard for new ideas and experiences. This is simply me trying to ignite a life that burns well. The kind of life that makes for great artists.
