Songsmith

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Life as a songsmith, a forger and singer of tales, seems to the uninitiated (that is, those who have never tried it) to be a most carefree existence, full of travel, romance and perhaps (only now and then, for spice) a little danger. In truth, it seldom reaches such memorable heights, being mostly work like unto any other.

One listens, one remembers, then one wrestles with words and musical notes to hammer all into a coherent whole, hoping fervently that the finished product will elicit smiles instead of frowns, or, worse, yawns. One learns to count the night’s takings from the clinks in the harp case, discerning the clear ring of silver from the thud of bronze and copper or (fortune be praised) the weighty, rare whisper of gold—all by sound alone. One spends nights huddled under the lash of rain, or stinging snow, with perhaps naught but a pocket of sullen fire to hold back the hungry night. One learns to heat brook water and sip it slowly in lieu of real food, trying thus to fool an empty belly…

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