An Ideal Day / Write Like Your Life Depends On It
It isn’t desperate, it isn’t a chore — but it isn’t frivolous.
Part I. An Ideal Day
I wouldn't say that I'm easily distracted, but as I continue to act on areas of excitement, my limited bandwidth is beginning to reveal itself. Priorities are balanced, mostly determined by familial responsibilities and external deadlines. At my best, I carve out chunks of focus to engage in creative endeavors — ones that often feel like going the extra mile.
With a precursor of self-acceptance, an ideal day happens maybe once a week — three times a month — with every other day striving toward its achievement.
I wake before my son, who tends to emphatically yell, "I'm done my nap!" just prior to 6:00 AM, signaling we're on his time — dependent on who "gets the morning," a scheduling agreement with my wife that balances self-employment and parenting. Although daycare would probably aid workflow, I'm extremely particular about who has influence in raising my only son.
If the prior evening's songwriting session has me satisfied enough to hang up the guitar and turn out the lights before 11:00 PM, a 5:00 AM alarm is met with both sufficient rest and anticipation.
It begins with prayer — sometimes in the form of scripture, sometimes journaling, sometimes just reflection — and a mason jar of room-temperature water with lemon juice and salt. Whatever early morning time remains, it's usually spent jumpstarting work — those five-minute tasks I’ve procrastinated on.
"I'm done my naaaaaaaaap!" — with a tonal pitch shift up to the fifth and returning to the fourth to close out the melodic announcement.
Berries and yogurt, Raisin Bran, toast and honey — usually two of the three — over the course of an hour, complete with Lego, stickers, or painting.
Staying true to the most ideal, I "get the morning" and take a second mason jar of carbonated water and lemon juice, a stovetop espresso, and two pieces of toast — peanut butter and sliced bananas — to my office.
Melanie calls it "eating the frog." What needs four hours of uninterrupted attention? As of the last year, it's one of two things — which, truthfully, aren't separate: building Western Seer Records and managing Lachlan Neville.
For twenty years, if you asked me what I do, I’d say "songwrite." Now, I manage growth.
It's easy to desire expediency — to a fault. I remind myself to act quickly and let go of the outcome.
Four undistracted hours of administrative work is impressive — its equivalent, by my own experience, is eight hours of manual labor or twelve hours of fieldwork. All productive, exhausting, and fulfilling.
Touch grass, or snow. Move around. Shift into Dad time.
Stay in the moment, regardless of what was left in the office. This is the most difficult aspect of the day. If a hack is necessary, it's discovering the double benefit — time on play structures as mobility training, playing with instruments as melody hunting. But for the most part, it's just him and me, doing together what needs to be done in an afternoon: readying, puzzling, running errands, visiting our aunt, listening to (only) rock and roll, getting outside, going to the comic book store, making a meal. The best days are when I follow his lead and leave everyone else’s demands for the half-hour catch-up window after bedtime or the next day's work session.
Once Mum emerges from her office at 5:00 PM, I’ll duck out to fight — head down the street and engage in the utmost humbling of kicking or getting my ass kicked.
On the walk, I talk to my Dad. For whatever reason, it's strangely the only time it happens. I still struggle with his absence, but in those three blocks, I reach out.
I resist looking at the clock while on the mats, using the time to refuel my drive, tighten my technique, and admit my accountability.
Every class has a differing intent — today I'm here to defend, today I'm here to release, today I'm here to help, today I'm here to kill.
Home. Bathe. Wash Gi.
Since we’ve recently moved past the afternoon nap, we have one tired little guy by 7:00 PM. Mostly intuiting whether Melanie needs sleep or wants to work, and isn’t already at the latter, I’ll give her a nudge if she happened to close her eyes following storytime. Then back up to my office.
"Write like your life depends on it because someday it might." The words of Ray Wylie Hubbard, whom I met in 2017. As expected in his sage-like passing of wisdom, numerous nuggets were offered in my direction — all the hardcopy proof I have of any of them is "just looks greasy" with his signature scrawled on the inside of my cowboy hat. Yet, whether it was in that moment or another, I recall those words. At first, it felt like hyperbole that fit well lyrically.
No longer do I feel that.
A wife, a son, resilience through a pandemic, Dad's death, tariffs, a new business overseeing three separate music careers, a year-old album, and a crippled industry — I head to my office.
Where earlier in my day, I'd say I manage growth, I come full circle and say no, I'm still a songwriter. I write these days with a pit in my stomach. It’s what it is. It isn’t desperate, it isn’t a chore — but it isn’t frivolous.
If I can hang up the guitar on the cusp of discovery, it comes while I sleep.
Maybe he still has a hand in it all.
Howdy Readers,
This entry comes as part of a blitz and an introduction to the next few months' worth of content. We're coming up on the one-year anniversary of What’s Left of the Right and, as I’ve spoken about before, many factors shaped how this record was put out into the world — Dad’s passing, the pull to farm, discovering Lachlan Neville, launching a label — not to mention the day-to-day, as outlined in today's Substack.
The biggest statement we made was resisting industry expectations and taking full control of what I deem relevant. And when you write a record about corruption, greed, and crooked politicians, mixed with reflections on where you grew up, well — it looks like it’s gonna stay relevant for some time to come.
On March 15, I’m planning another big push to bring new readers into this Substack community, while also introducing a new direction and deeper concept for yearly subscribers.
I’ve best described my recent record as “40-year-old Blake channeling 15-year-old Blake for 8-year-old Blake.”
Because being a farm kid in the '90s was the tail end of innocence.
If you’re enjoying these posts and want to go deeper, your paid subscriptions are what keep this ship sailing. Full disclosure:
We're deep in planning the launch of Lachlan’s new record.
Legal fees (the good kind) are stacking up.
Melanie is starting a new record.
And the creation of art — as always — continues.
Now is a great time to upgrade. If you do, you'll get a free signed double LP of What’s Left of the Right, shipped directly to your doorstep.
🔥 Become a paid subscriber & get a free signed double LP — click here!
Thank you for being here — and if you're considering jumping aboard as a paid subscriber, it would mean the world and help fuel the months ahead.
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Part II. Write Like Your Life Depends On It
Moderation has always been my biggest struggle. A new relationship? Let's see them all the time. A sip of beer? Let's drink the case. Dip in crypto? Let's invest my RRSPs.
Granted, I’m now married, sober, and — in light of all the presidential chaos — hoping for a possible silver lining.
I say "never once," but the truth is "only once" did my father not support my musical pursuits.
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