Now though, as I sat and looked at the essay I’d spent the past few hours writing, I finally felt ready to look the truth in the eye.
I would never be as good of a producer as I needed to be to create the music I saw in my head, and that was unacceptable. I would simply rather not do it, than bring out something that was less than it should be. I had too much respect for music to do it poorly. And if I recognised that about myself, other people would, too. I wouldn’t spend years of my life chipping away at a skill set I did not possess, and did not feel passion for, which was perhaps worse.
The realisation hurt. It felt like a kind of grief to admit that I was well and truly done with music production.
Bitterness coated the back of my tongue as I finally accepted that would not be my path.
But even as I came to that understanding, I looked at the words in front of me, and I began to feel something else. Something new.
I felt spent, creatively speaking.
I was almost dizzy, but also giddy. It was how I’d once envisioned it would feel to finish a piece of music. And actually like what I’d produced.
In letting go of one dream, I had given myself permission to have a new one. Perhaps to acknowledge one that had been in me all this time.
I’d poured myself into this piece.
Observations, commentary, a linear thread of dialogue that I’d meticulously fact-checked and referenced. And above all of the facts and opinions, was the unmistakable ‘me’ in it.
It was a wry commentary on how music formed a kind of societal topography, mapping shifting ideas, culture integration, the feelings of a generation. A sound-based pH dipstick for any period in history. It was funny, light-hearted, and wry. It was a reflection of how I felt, and how I observed others felt.
It was a love letter to all the musicians trapped in their apartments who carried their cellos and violins out onto their balconies to serenade entire neighbourhoods. It was a standing ovation to the DJs splicing anthems from the 90s with euphoric EDM. It was an outpouring of adoration for those who made music for those that needed it the most.
‘Because if history was a map, music is how we would navigate our way across it.’
I was proud, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been proud of myself, which in itself was a hell of an admission.
I was also a little bit curious to see how it would be received.
My blog wasn’t anything special, just a niche little corner of the internet I’d carved out for myself, back when I’d been a student. It had started out as rambling posts about bands I loved, albums I’d spent money on – or not – artists I’d seen live,and the 3 am scribbles on how music made me feel. It had been an outlet I’d poured my passion for music into.
Because it was hosted on a blogging platform, people often found my page because of the tags I’d used, shared interests bringing us together.
As my life evolved, so had my blog. I’d written dozens of entries about moving to LA, working at ‘a recording studio’ and discreetly alluding to the various celebrity encounters I’d had.
I’d loosely documented moving to Korea. I’d never named which company I’d worked for, but I’d described the kind of work I did, and my small adventures around Seoul, like the time I gatecrashed a German tour group.
Some people accused me of making it up, but it seemed to draw more and more people in, until I’d amassed a couple thousand followers.
Mostly though, I posted about music. Music I loved, music I wanted to love, music that made me feel things more complicated than love.
It had even boosted the amount of followers I had on the other social media platforms Becka had bullied me into creating. I only posted occasionally, but going off the comments and usernames, at least some of them had found me from my blog, which was kind of wild.
They were people I didn’t know, people from all over the world. It was bizarre, but cool.
And so, it was with a tired, but content feeling, that I published the essay on my blog.
I called Jihoon afterwards. He was about to go to bed, but he made time to speak with me, listening patiently as I excitedly described what I’d written about.
When I got to the part about how watching his dance practice had inspired me, he shook his head.
“Ky, you should take credit for this, not us,” he said.
Warmth bloomed in my belly, and I looked away, hiding my smile.
“It’s only a blog,” I said quietly.
“Nothing you do is ever ‘only’ something,” he insisted. “You are good at this. You write well.”
