One day in August 2005, in a rented flat in Scotland, with a rented laptop, I suddenly had something. The day before, all I had was things. Machines and cables. Cases that nearly didn't make it onto the plane. Cheap surge protectors found at the end of a long walk with a bad map. But that day (let's pretend it was a Thursday), that Thursday, there was something else. Play in a drumbeat, a couple notes of piano, put some strings on top of that - holy shit, we're making an album!
Almost two years later, I've put in hundreds of hours writing, recording, sequencing, and tweaking. Each track has a personality, eight children growing all at once, one more still waiting to be born. There's a mockup of the cover on my wall; under it is a list of all my little ones' names, so I don't forget to feed any of them. They're all so different, but they're all my babies. They're always in the back of my mind.
And yet I still haven't gotten over that initial shock. That all this work I've done in my apartment in my underwear will actually mean something, that someday I will have a thing to show for it. A little plastic box that I can hold up and say "This is what I've done." And maybe even, "This is why I'm here."
That someday is coming soon. As of this weekend, I'm officially in album lockdown mode. No new commitments, no stupid wastes of time. Just spending time at home, building this thing up until it's done. And when it is, I'll revel in letting them all go. Watching them run out into the world, and desperately hoping that my little songs can succeed. Soon, my darlings, soon.