Every once in a while, you have one of those moments.
I used to call them, "Someone's following me around with a clipboard again."
They happen when something around you, media-wise, world-wise, or other-wise (heh heh), reflects something you've thought, or done, so exactly that you wonder if someone's on your figurative heels, taking notes.
I had one of those some time ago, in a way that will get your attention.
It happened when I heard of the death of Keith Emerson, of Emerson, Lake & Palmer.
For those of you who don't know who this guy was, trust me...he used to be the one lots of pianists wanted to be when we grew up. 😀 When it came to keyboards, the man could do anything...and frequently did.
I never met the guy....but I felt a connection to him, nevertheless.
Because he was a direct inspiration for my first novel, FROM THE ASHES.
That book came about because I heard a story, decades ago, about how Emerson had lost a home he had--a castle, I want to say--to a fire, while he was out on tour.
Now, can you imagine how desolate that must have felt?
To come "home" from the road...to discover you don't actually have a "home" anymore?
As I thought about it, my writer's "what-if" brain took over. And I thought, "What if the same thing happened to your musical life? What if, in effect, your musical career went up in flames in some way, and you had no "home" anymore? What would that do to you?"
Enter James Michael Goodwin, who in the first scene of FROM THE ASHES, has just finished his debut with the Boston Symphony, in which he's played his first Piano Concerto...but which also, no one else realizes, is his farewell to the stage. Because his hands have begun to succumb to arthritis and other debilitating conditions....and he's already losing his ability to play. When he also hits a composing "dry spell," he looks at his life and comes to believe his best days are already behind him. Thus, at the age of 31, he returns from his orchestral triumph, sits down, and puts a gun to his head.
In the book, of course, he's saved from death. (Or it'd be a very short book, indeed.)
But fast-forward to 2016...and the real-life guy who inspired that scenario.
As it turns out, that guy's hands are beginning to "go" on him, through a degenerative nerve disease. That guy actually is depressed and worried about upcoming performances...because he knows there's a day coming when he won't be able to play anymore like he used to--or maybe at all.
And thus, Keith Emerson, in the throes of that despair... sits down and puts a gun to his head.
Unfortunately, he's not in a novel. And he's not spared from death.
The "echo" quality of that sent a ripple through my mind, and my heart, that still hasn't ebbed.
Especially in the irony of how the man died...and why...
...when I had written, in effect, that very thing into a book inspired by him.
Sometimes, what we think is just "making stuff up"...has an uncanny way of ending up being a truth. An insight. A perception.
I just wish in this case it hadn't also been what almost feels like...prophetic.
RIP, Keith.
It was an honor. And...an inspiration.
And I won't ever take "inspiration" lightly... again.
Thoughts?
Janny
Janny
