Lather. Rinse. Repeat, Ad Nauseam.

The fact that I am the author and blog deity of a [laughably] literary site which contains any mathematically quantifiable visual representation of Miley Cyrus (let alone daring to directly reference She-who-shall-not-be-named-again) is a profound and personal shame for me.  Still, the image and reference are [moderately] related to the crux of this post.  Most importantly though, the mere mention of The Duchess of Soulless Tween Rock ensures [F]ap [Cr]iction's rightful assent to the top of the Google search results heap, which should net me an extra page view or two, so...meh.

Self-loathing and penitent digression complete, I shall continue with the all-important originally intended topic, .i.e., the tawdry relationship between music and writing.
Convoluted diatribes aside, music has always been an important ingredient in my writing.

For example, prior to writing this post I was editing an old short story with Kings and Queens by 30 Seconds to Mars blaring in the background—on infinite repeat.  Whenever I work on Desperately Seeking Suicide, I listen to For Nancy ('Cos It Already Is) by Pete Yorn—on infinite repeat.  When working on Addicted, I listen to Bogusflow by Beck—on infinite repeat.

And therein lies the oddity, all musical taste notwithstanding.

My creative playlists are not carefully orchestrated and arranged to summon specific tones or feelings.  In fact, they're one song long and not intended to summon anything short of the ire of any unfortunate soul within earshot.  Oddly enough, it's not just meditative white noise either, as I'm actively listening to the song while I write—over and over and over and over again.  Odder still, the tone of the song and the tone of my writing are in no way related.  It pains me to say it, but with all due respect to Ms. Estefan, the rhythm has, as of this moment, failed to get me.

This segues nicely into the all-important question which is no doubt percolating in your mind: Am I just bat-shit crazy?  To the best of my knowledge, probably not.

I must admit, however, that every aspect of the artistic process as it relates to music mystifies me.  I possess zero musical talent and consistently fail to demonstrate a mastery of even the most rudimentary elements of rhythm inherent in most biped organisms.  Just ask a few of my friends and family—they've seen me sing and dance.  But it is precisely this admitted ignorance that makes music so important to my writing.  Whenever I read a good book, as a writer, I can appreciate first-hand all of the work that goes into it.  The structure and logic of writing makes sense to me (whether or not I actually employ it to good use in my own work).  In contrast, music is some kind of magic trick.  To sit down with an instrument and create a melody of any kind, let alone a good one, is miraculous from my perspective—like being able to conjure an image of Jesus inside a tortilla at will.

Prodigious flatbreads aside, miracles, by their very nature, inspire.  If there's a better catalyst for creativity than that, I'm all ears.

Besides, though I may lack any empirical evidence whatsoever, I'm positive that while writing God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian, Kurt Vonnegut listened to Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot—on infinite repeat.  It's just a hunch I have. 

Photo Credit.