This Substack:

Where I’ve been, why I’m back, what the heck I’m doing here.

This Substack

I started this Substack a year ago, on fire with optimism and determination. I had just finished my first album, at the ripe age of 67 (appropriately titled Late Bloomer), which was about to be released. I was preparing for my summer CD release party, and I had a plan - oh, such an exciting dream, just on the brink of coming true.

I was so optimistic, I titled this space Rooted, Rising, and Ready. I was ready - in motion, unstoppable! I was proud of my album, as one is of a child. I truly believed everyone would love it. How could they not? It was really, really good. And the people who did hear it did love it. Several bought it; a few more listened on streaming platforms.

Here’s the catch: hardly anyone heard it.

You can’t like what you’ve never heard.

This isn’t a complaint, exactly. No one is obligated to listen to music that doesn’t interest them. It’s nobody’s fault. I just don’t seem to draw people in. I may be admired - perhaps; I see signs of that - but not attractive, in the literal sense of attracting attention. I can make an impression, but I tend to fade into the background once the moment has passed.

Everyone who heard about my release party thought it was a great idea. They were all going to come. But life is full, and other, more compelling things were happening.

Still, the people who were there were transfixed. I got a standing ovation - which may be less impressive with fewer than twenty people in the room, but still, it was deeply gratifying and heart-opening. It was a beautiful release party. I gave a superlative performance - by my exacting standards, the best of my life.

But it didn’t get the reception I expected or hoped for.

I didn’t mean to, but I ran out of steam. I couldn’t keep powering my own momentum. A performer needs an audience; it’s a symbiotic relationship. I cherish the sporadic opportunities I’ve had to perform. In 2023, I opened at the Hornby Festival. In 2024, I had the CD release party. In January, I opened for Stephen Fearing at our local Community Hall. I’ll be part of the group performing at the opening of our local Blues Week. I’ll continue to take part in every performance opportunity that comes my way. And I keep recording. I sang a song at our local Herring Fest in March - the recording can be found here.

But I just can’t do the promote-my-music-to-grow-my-audience thing. I can’t treat it as a career. For one thing, that’s not where I’m at in my life. I’m now 68, which doesn’t mean much in terms of ability or value, but it has diminished my stamina and patience for nonsense like “paying dues.” Why pay dues for something you’re never granted entry to?

So I did what I always do: power down, back off, and wait for the next opening. Rest. Recoup my energy. Rebalance my system.

As an autistic person, that’s my way. And it works for me. I’m not moaning about a sad or sorry lot. I’m blessed to live a low-stimulation, high-nourishment life in a place of accidental privilege - near the ocean, the forest, in quiet and peace. I’m surrounded by family who support me, a handful of people who love me, and a remarkable community of peers whose respect I value.

All of this is the long way of saying: I think I’m back.

My writer’s block seems to be cracking. I’m writing more. I’ve started up my column again in the local paper.

I still don’t know exactly what this Substack wants to be.

It might turn out to be about autism. Or just… me. My experiences and perspective are unusual - maybe even useful to the broader conversation.

It might be that someone out there needs to hear what I have to say. Or at least read what I write. And I’ll always link you back to my music: phoenixbee.bandcamp.com. I’m still making it. I’m still writing songs. My songs have changed, because I’ve changed. Writing helps me process that. And I find I can’t seem to write unless I’m writing for someone.

I used to be a blogger - not a popular one, of course, but prolific. I poured myself out onto the web, and it felt like home.

Until it didn’t.

The internet began to feel unwelcoming, even dangerous. I used to overshare on Facebook too. But then it grew increasingly polarized and filled with spam content. Now I hardly share at all. It’s been a long time since I put myself out there online. These days, I mostly confine my writing to journaling, exercises for my writers’ group, my local column, and songwriting. I seldom even write emails anymore. I used to pour out words. And then I stopped. Since then, I haven’t been able to.

And then Substack came along.

Well - it had already been around a while. But I hadn’t entered the arena until I did, with the aim of marketing my music. And it felt different from the rest of the internet.

Like a small world of civility and humanity.

Like a party where people talk to each other, instead of a stadium full of screaming, polarized nonsense.

Writer’s block is hard. When you’re autistic, it can feel impossible. They call it situational mutism. For months, I couldn’t get out a single word here.

And now? I’m opening the door a crack.

Is anyone there?

Oh well. It doesn’t matter.

I’m here.