One Key Takeaway From Each Book I Read in 2019
Life lessons from writing manuals, rock biographies, self-help books, and more.
In a previous post, I mentioned how reading more has become one of my main goals over the past couple of years. Building a solid reading habit is still a work in progress but in 2019, the handful of books I read impacted me in a lot of different ways. Most of my recent reading involves music history and self-help type stuff. I hope to branch out some more this year and dive into different genres and expand my pallet a little bit, but at the end of the day, you like what you like.
Below are key takeaways and reinforcements from each book I read last year, presented in the order in which I read them.
Stephen King — On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Talent exists, work ethic prevails
Stephen King is one of the world’s all-time great authors. There is no debating that. There are numerous great books on writing that exist out there, but something about his version of a “how-to” manual seemed more attractive and contemporary to me in comparison to other popular works on the craft. While King is best known for the suspense-fueled narratives of his many classic horror-fantasy novels, On Writing takes a direct and blunt approach in describing what it means and what it takes to be a writer.
He boils down the criteria of being a professional writer to a simple premise. To be a writer, there are two things one must do: they must read a lot and they must write a lot. King makes it clear that there are no shortcuts to being a competent wordsmith. If books aren’t a staple in your diet, you may as well stop wasting your time. In the same vein, if you aren’t writing consistently to hone your craft, it’s unrealistic to have any expectations of becoming a steady professional.
King doesn’t sugarcoat the truth for aspiring authors. He writes, “I can’t lie and say there are no bad writers. Sorry, but there are lots of bad writers.”
While blunt and honest, it’s not all black and white. He breaks down the four tiers of writers like this: bad writers, competent writers, good writers, and great writers. He explains that while it is impossible for a bad writer to become a competent writer or a good writer to become a great writer, it is completely feasible for a competent writer to become a good writer. But only through proper hard work, dedication, and refinement of the right skills.
Some people are destined to become great at certain things. Jimi Hendrix was a virtuoso guitar player with an unequivocal gift when it came to playing his instrument. For a novice guitar player, no matter how many years they practice on and study the craft, they will never become great on the level of Jimi Hendrix. However, with ample time and effort invested in learning the instrument, they will certainly improve and are more than capable of becoming a skilled musician.
David N. Meyer — Twenty Thousand Roads: The Ballad of Gram Parsons and His Cosmic American Music
The pleasures and perils of excess
“Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.” — Mark Twain
We all have our vices, some more significant than others. The burdens that tormented country-rock legend Gram Parsons were heavier than most. Born into a family of monumental wealth, Parsons’ childhood was stained by alcoholism and greed. By the time he finished high school, both his parents had died — his father by a self-inflicted gunshot to the head and his mother at the mercy of the bottle. His short-lived journey as a musician and songwriter would be crippled by self-loathing, drug and alcohol addiction, narcissism, and lack of professional success by any credible measure. Though deep inside, Parsons’ passion for music burned hotter than the bluest of flames, his tumultuous lifestyle inevitably caught up with him, culminating with his death of a drug and overdose at the mere age of 26-years old.
In Twenty Thousand Roads, David N. Meyer’s exceptionally thorough biography of Parsons, the perils of excess are evident at every turn in the story. Meyer takes a comprehensive look at not only the life of Parsons but the entirety of the late ’60s and early ’70s rock scene in Los Angeles. It’s no secret that 1960s Hollywood was a happening place.
In examining the era, Meyer describes how hippie culture, sex, and overall indulgence influenced the art coming out of the city around this time, during which some of the greatest rock acts of the era were in their prime and producing seminal works. As the life of Parsons progresses (and unravels), so does much of the world alongside him. With the end of the ’60s came the end of the era of free love, problematic health (and death) to those who spent the previous decade abusing substances, and an unsettling depression that haunted rock culture throughout the following years.
When Parsons passed in 1973, he was just one of a long list of notable names claimed by the excesses of his time. Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Danny Whitten, Alan Wilson are a handful of the other notable artists who sadly succumbed to the world around them. Perhaps no song better captures the sentiment of post-hippie depression better than Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush.” The highs of the 1960s remain something of a fairytale. The drugs, the money, the sex, the glamorous lifestyle — it was a historic cultural period in many regards. The classic bands of the era and the albums they produced are still just as iconic: The Doors, The Byrds, The Beach Boys, Buffalo Springfield, The Mamas & The Papas, and many others.
In some respects, the artistic milestones outweigh the tragic events from this time. But it is nearly impossible to separate the two into separate case studies. With the highs come the lows. With pleasure comes pain. With excess comes euphoria and danger.
Michael Streissguth — Outlaw: Waylon, Willie, Kris, and the Renegades of Nashville
The power in standing up for your beliefs
When one mentions the term “outlaw country,” the average person probably conjures up an image in their mind of old cowboy musicians who made a name living like rebels — more notorious for their run-ins with the law than their actual music. While the canon of outlaw country musicians certainly includes its fair share of crooks and felons (see David Allan Coe), the real meaning of the country music sub-genre derived from the rebellious attitudes of a collective of artists and songwriters who refused to conform to the mainstream standards of Nashville and the country music industry at large.
The ethos of the outlaw country movement is perfectly captured in Michael Streissguth’s Outlaw: Waylon, Willie, Kris, and the Renegades of Nashville — a compelling and entertaining book that paints a broad picture of the outlaw scenes in Nashville, Austin, and other regions in the late 1960s and early 1970s. It focuses on three key figures in the movement: Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson — three artists who all impacted the country landscape in their own way.
Kristofferson’s story screams defiance. Once an accomplished helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army, he moved to Nashville to pursue a songwriting career, enduring extreme disapproval and scorn from his family in the process. After striking it big with numerous original songs, Kristofferson again defied the norm by leaving Nashville for Los Angeles and acting money — a slap in the face to Music City and its royal court of country music.
Jennings had gained a loyal following through years of touring, while constantly butting heads with his record label over the creative direction and control of his music. Jennings also rejected the Nashville norms for style and sound, and upon gaining full control of his albums, enjoyed the most critically and commercially successful years of his career.
Nelson also sweated out years of surviving as a struggling songwriter before packing up his belongings and leaving the Nashville establishment completely behind. He gained a cult following in Austin, Texas playing the kind of oddball, jazz-flavored country he wanted to play. Nearly fifty years later, he is an icon because of it.
The notions of Kristofferson, Jennings, Nelson, and the other outlaw acts who stood up for their artistic freedom are symbolic for activists from all walks of life. Their battles were courageous. No matter how much the outside world tried to restrict them, they never compromised and maintained stayed the course in pursuing their vision. Their story is a golden example of what it means to lay it all on the line for what you believe in.
It takes great sacrifice and risk to achieve something truly significant. It’s not to say the journey will be easy. There will almost certainly be struggle before there is any shine. But is a little rain worth maintaining your freedom? When you stand up for what you want, you are your own person.
Mark Manson — The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck
The importance of prioritizing your values and making time for things that matter to you
My first few years of adulting have been a roller coaster of learning responsibility and uncovering what things truly mean the most to me. From the time I moved away to college to when I secured my first real job, I had a million ideas about what type of person I was and what my real interests were. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be a “regular” young adult with a decent-paying 9–5 job. But I also wasn’t sure if I saw myself as a free-spirited roamer. If I was somewhere in the middle, who in the heck was I and what did I even care about?
Last year, reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck put all the things I had been going through in perspective. By no means have I found all the answers to those questions. Instead, I’ve realized a few things. First, gaining experience and pursuing those answers is a normal part of growing up. Second, you won’t discover all the answers overnight. Lastly, it’s okay not to have all the answers. That’s half the beauty in this game anyway. What fun would it be if everything was set in stone and all figured out?
At the end of the day, we are all going to die. That is certain. What is uncertain is the amount of time we have to live. Therefore, doesn’t it make sense to dedicate your time to the things you care about most? The point Mark Manson so eloquently drove home in his book isn’t that not caring too much about anything leads to an ideal state of happiness, but rather, when considering that, to our knowledge, we only have one life on earth, we should invest ourselves in the aspects of life we value more than anything else and not be bothered with small and meaningless bullshit that ultimately has zero impact on our well being.
Reading this book challenged me to spend time reflecting on the things I truly care about. Those things will shift and change over time, but for now, I’m committed to making them a priority and giving them my full attention and heart.
Steven Hyden — Twighlight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock
Success is subjective. Timelessness isn’t
The ascension of music as a commercial and social art form around the globe erupted halfway through the 20th century and the world has never been the same since. From Elvis Presley to The Beatles, thousands of bands and musicians from different countries completely revolutionized the way the public consumed and thought about art. The sad reality we live in in 2020 is that the great artistic minds that impacted the world with their records in the 1950s, ’60s, ’70s, ’80s and so on, are now old and dying — a reminder that even our most immortal heroes are human after all.
The last five years have seen the likes of Prince, Tom Petty, David Bowie, Aretha Franklin, Chuck Berry, and countless other former rockstars pass away. As the lives of so many legendary musical figures come to an end, what happens to the work they left behind? And what did it all mean? Those are some of the questions Steven Hyden poses in his classic rock memoir Twighlight of the Gods. As a longtime fan of many typical “classic rock” bands, I have inevitably pondered on some of these same ideas.
When founding Eagles member Glenn Frey died in 2016, I got lost in an unexpected sentimental state that had me reflecting on my youth. When I was a kid, the Eagles were one of the bands my dad had in constant rotation on drives. Songs like “Take It Easy” and “Lyin’ Eyes” became ingrained in my soul by the time I finished elementary school. As I started to explore more of the classic rock canon in high school and college, I found that the Eagles still held a special place in my heart. They reminded me of being young and free. Now older and a tad wiser, I also appreciated them on a more sophisticated level. Their harmonies didn’t just sound good, they were intricately beautiful. Joe Walsh and Don Felder’s dueling guitar solo on “Hotel California” wasn’t just a hard-rocking novelty I could bang my head to, it was a technically-impressive performance of masterful guitar work. Glenn Frey was gone but I still loved the Eagles. In fact, I loved them even more.
Since 2017, the Eagles have resumed touring with parts of their core lineup. I saw them that summer and they put on a great show. Eventually, there won’t be any more tours and all the band members will be reunited with Glenn on the other side. When they are no longer here, how will we remember them? For me, it won’t be that their Greatest Hits album is the best-selling album of the 20th Century (though that’s a fun trivia fact). What I will remember and hold onto most are the songs. The same goes for all the legendary rock and roll greats who will pass away in our lifetime.
Here is a passage from Hyden’s book, found in the chapter “Keep On Loving You,” which discusses commercial viability vs. artistic and social significance.
A band like Styx wasn’t just faceless, it was intentionally faceless. The most recognizable guy in Styx was campy lead singer Dennis DeYoung, a theatrical cheeseball whose bushy mustache and frizzy mullet made him look like a seventies-era magician. But even DeYoung wasn’t a rock star with a well-known persona like Bowie, even if DeYoung’s band sold more records than Bowie did in the late seventies. Styx’s music might have been more palatable to more people, but it also mattered less to its audience.
Money and commercial achievements are great, but you cannot take them with you when you are gone. Over four decades later, no one talks about Styx. Meanwhile, David Bowie is an icon, immortalized for his artistic expression and willingness to push the envelope. At the end of the day, it is not the accolades, but the actions that will be remembered. Lest we disregard those reaching to create something greater than themselves.
