In My Car
I write songs when I am driving in my car, smoking an American Spirit. I can hear the bass line and melody, but I've never been good at imagining up the other parts. But I don't know how to write music out of the car, or at least I don't let myself, and when I come here to the open, blank screen, nothing will come. I do have stories to tell. I tell them to Kevin at night in that half-hour after sex and before sleep. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he gives me a little hug and tells me he loves me. When I'm driving, I make those same stories into songs. But here, sitting in my bed, a cat at each side, the stories are just stories -- never songs. Sometimes I think about bringing my tape recorder with me in the car, so I can remember all of the things I imagine up in my little black Fit. But I don't think they'd sound as good as they do in my head, and I don't want to ruin the mystery of it. In my car, I am an indie songstress who pens quirky, biographical folk tunes. Outside of that oasis, I'm a diner waitress who'll tell you her life story if you want it and always deliver your food with a smile.