I've been playing guitar the whole day (Sunday), my fingers are cut to fucking ribbons, and I still don't have a recording of My Heart. But I'm not worried. Failure is not an option. I'll try again today (Monday). And I've been reading some Napoleon Hill quotes on the internet. You've got to have desire. Oh, I’ve got plenty of that.
I'm not writing about finance tonight. You'll have to wait until Tuesday for some exciting bollocks about a hedge fund launching or closing.
I'm worried I may need to write another song. Damn. / There must be something wrong with My Heart if I can't capture it in more than 250 recordings. Actually, I've lost count. / Maybe there's something wrong with me. / I did write a tune yesterday. I might be able to use it. I don't know. I go from being completely certain in my head to utterly fucked. I need to get chilled.
You don't have to read this. It's my diary. You can read No. 90, about the little lamb. I wouldn't bother with this though.
I've put Apollo on. It should chill me out a bit. It's cold out in space. Just ask Elton John. 'No, Mikey, it's lonely out in space.' Whatever, Voice. Go away, please.
That new tune is all right (easy to play, too). Pretty catchy, in fact. Maybe I should develop it later today, and put some words to it - quickly. No messing about. I'm sick of messing about.
Lionel Bart used to sing his lyrics into a tape recorder. He couldn't play an instrument. 'You want to do things properly, man.' Of course I do. I'll get there. 'You've been there before, Mikey.' Of course I have. I finished my first demo twenty-five years ago this February, although I had professional musicians helping me then. / "Fast" Eddie Felson didn't crumble in The Color of Money. I'm not going to.
I'm not writing about finance tonight. You'll have to wait until Tuesday for some exciting bollocks about a hedge fund launching or closing.
I'm worried I may need to write another song. Damn. / There must be something wrong with My Heart if I can't capture it in more than 250 recordings. Actually, I've lost count. / Maybe there's something wrong with me. / I did write a tune yesterday. I might be able to use it. I don't know. I go from being completely certain in my head to utterly fucked. I need to get chilled.
You don't have to read this. It's my diary. You can read No. 90, about the little lamb. I wouldn't bother with this though.
I've put Apollo on. It should chill me out a bit. It's cold out in space. Just ask Elton John. 'No, Mikey, it's lonely out in space.' Whatever, Voice. Go away, please.
That new tune is all right (easy to play, too). Pretty catchy, in fact. Maybe I should develop it later today, and put some words to it - quickly. No messing about. I'm sick of messing about.
Lionel Bart used to sing his lyrics into a tape recorder. He couldn't play an instrument. 'You want to do things properly, man.' Of course I do. I'll get there. 'You've been there before, Mikey.' Of course I have. I finished my first demo twenty-five years ago this February, although I had professional musicians helping me then. / "Fast" Eddie Felson didn't crumble in The Color of Money. I'm not going to.
