As you’ve heard me say, I’m one of the few writers I know who don’t write to music. Quiet. Silence. Dead air. Anything rocking near me completely scrambles my wiring. My thoughts completely short circuit.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love music. I listen to it while I’m cleaning (which I’ll admit isn’t very often *g*). I play it in the car while I’m driving. (Which keeps me focused because it drowns out all the other “channels” running in my brain.) And I having it playing during dinner.

But when I have to concentrate, I can’t even have instrumental music playing. Annnnyyyywaaay … that’s not really the point of this post. It’s just the prelude to a conundrum that has me going hmmmmm…

When I slow down to focus on all the “channels” in my head, there is always a song playing. And since it’s not a conscious thing, it is very random. This morning I woke to the “Truvia commercial”.

It’s not always a jingle playing, sometimes it’s a complete song including backup singers. Which is even funnier since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and keys to me are only something to start a car and unlock the apartment.

I wish someone could crawl into my head for a little while. Perhaps like the alien in Stephanie Meyer’s book “Host”. (Awesome book by the way.) You know, just hang out, get the lay of the land and tell me where I fall on the weirdness scale. Are all tortured artists several frenquencies shy of a full bandwith? I’d like to know.

Or am I quietly singing to the universe solo?

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