Things we all have rolling around in the caverns of us. Funny how the word secret pulls my insides into hiding places. Somewhere along the line of my becoming, the word got draped with negative suggestions: withholding, duplicitous, dishonest. As if by not telling I was lying. I mean, truth be, I did lie too. When I was a young’un, I apparently made stuff up. I don’t actually remember the details of all except for one instance when I was 8-ish and climbed out onto our second-story roof in the middle of the night. Looking back, I have no idea why. When I came back in, the screen wouldn’t fit correctly into its slot. I did the best I could, but the next morning my mom saw it all skewed, freaked out, and thought someone had tried to break in. Fair. Except instead of putting her mind at ease and telling her it was all me, I was too afraid of getting in trouble so I kept my mouth shut. This, as you don’t need to be told, was the wrong decision. A withholding of truth that almost led to a visit from the police. It’s a bit of a blur, but I do know I blabbed before a B&E investigation was launched. And while, in my noggin’, there’s no concrete memory of the aftermath, it’s not a stretch to assume I was grounded (altho maybe 8 year olds don’t get grounded. I mean where are they gonna go). I’m sure I was scolded and, worse than that, told I had disappointed my parents by my actions. That was absolutely more the way of my parents rather than yelling or hard-labor punishment.

The incident became the soil where my reputation as someone who didn’t always tell the truth grew. I know I got this rep because my mom told me I was this girl enough so I began to wear it like an itchy ugly sweater. Somewhere along the way, I decided to make-things-up as a form of storytelling. This was not anything I remember making a conscious decision about but more a way of owning that uncomfortable thing I’d emotionally shrugged into. Obviously though, journalism is not the best writing form to fudge facts and all my schooling did school me in that absolutely. I was much too terrified to take any chances having zero interest in becoming any sort of Stephen Glass or James Frey. My nervous system just wouldn’t take it. So when it came to my published articles, I was glued to the facts. Also: fact-checkers.

It was easy for me to paint a stay-within-the-lines story when it came to describing others, because, when I’m honest, my core self has always been someone who likes a good bit of rules to follow. Makes me feel safe. (As a copy editor, I couldn’t be happier with a chunky style guide by my side.) Also, I was(am) a homebody so any chance of me becoming some sort of HunterS. type who stumbles and twirls around the world getting wasted and getting stories (& maybe using firearms) would not guarantee me the security of my four walls and comfy bed. I never even liked sleepovers as a kid. So right there, a pair of secrets I kept from a great majority—maybe almost all—the people I spent time with during my music-writing career. Except for one or two close friends (you know who you are), I worked very diligently at conveying a hard-partying, up-all-night, f&k-all attitude, rock chick persona. I studied the stance, worked the room, always raised my hand for another round.

This was, quite honestly, exhausting and even writing it down here, I almost need to take a nap in remembering how often I really truly wanted to be home in the bathtub with a book. But I just didn’t think that was a cool thing to want so I kept it a secret and decided to carry on with the mayhem. I was sure that many things I wanted deep down inside were uncool. Love and lust, together in a package that had staying power beyond a night, a week, maybe a month. A no-hangover morning rather than the brag-fest that happened in the SPIN&beyond hallways that went something like, “You think you feel like sh*t! I actually can’t feel my feet.” “Oh, yeah? Well I wish one of you would shut up because I’m seeing double.” and on like that. I ached to sit on my couch, possibly with a cat on my lap, and watch the NBC must-see Thursday night lineup (years 1993–84; 2000–02). It wasn’t that I didn’t also want to get on a tour bus with Pearl Jam or go to a secret late-night Prince performance, because I did absolutely want those things as well. It’s just that I wanted both the calm and the cacophony. Now I can see that because I kept one side of that equation a secret, the quiet-life side of me didn’t stand a chance. Early on it was packed tight away in the box on the shelf of my soul’s deepest darkest storage space.

I also kept it a big blasted secret when I stopped enjoying music. FerGawd’sSake, that would have sunk my battleship for sure. I kept that tidbit under wraps even from myself given music had always been the blood that flowed through me, had animated all the moments I was awake and even sometimes when I was asleep. To have that slip away, shove off, relocate to somewhere I couldn’t even find on a map was not OK. Not altogether grasping the alchemy of how notes, chords, lyrics, libido, sweat, sound, chorus, joy, silliness, friendship, magic were all the necessary things that made music a thing I loved, something that had always lifted me out of a lesser-felt life, I froze up. Music was my job. And of course that was in large part of the problem. Something that filled the air with emotion became commodified. The invisible was clothed in some sort of saleable material and put out on the street to make money. Well, sure, that’s how it works in capitalism but, I lost all my magic marbles when I began to have to turn them all into gold moneymaking units.

Funny thing was, I thought by moving to the business side I was saving myself. First, because of the big paycheck that would stop the bill collectors who were calling. Second, because I thought I would be a different kind of music-biz executive type. Two truths instead: Apparently I’d internalized the starving-artist bohemian attitude so deeply that I was embarrassed by the money. I know this because every damn weekend I went out and bought a circus-ton of expensive stuff, some of which stayed in my closet with tags on. On the second point: There was zero chance that I would be a different kind of music exec. In the wheel that was business, I was Catherine, by which I mean I was detonated by committee. Did what I was told. Got that paycheck, spent that money, dropped the thread connecting me to the wondrous parade of sound&feeling. This isn’t the bit where I pull out a tiny violin and begin playing. It’s actually the part where I take notice, pick up the thread, and stay with the story being woven from the secrets. It may be a bit Bosch-like, touch of Guernica, but also a good dose of Sunflowers and maybe some Peter Max and Keith Herring, Basquiat, O’Keeffe and whimsy. Because why the hell not? Those secrets aren’t gonna tell themselves so I’ll paint the picture.