In this town, a man is known not by who he is, but by what he does. He is remembered for the final product of his creative output.
It is not enough that you make music. You must make enough of it that people enjoy your work and carry your name banner into the field. But toy with a few tunes here and there, write something on an occasional basis, and there’s no juice, there’s no increase, there’s no gravitas, there’s no elevation. Rockets require a lot of fuel, the right spark, and directed focus of force to leave the ground. Without that direction, you’re just a firecracker, another in a long string of firecrackers, each making your pop before the cherry flame travels down the fuse chain to the next in line.
It’s not enough that I have fire. Not enough that I have fuel. I have the raw materials in hand (music can be made with coconut shells and rubber bands, for chrissakes). What’s left, then? Direction. Direction of force. The drive. The discipline. The dream to rocket off the ground.