The Sun is my favourite magazine. The concept of its website is what concept of my-kind-of website is. And, its content is what my-kind-of-content should be. I love printed words- a ‘carefully’ done ‘simple’ design- and if the same could be done in the web platform, one must say it’s incredible!
Personal. Political. Provocative. Ad-free.
This motto is what I-believe-in. Perhaps, someday.
Here’s one of its readers’ story that moved me. It is from January, 2008 issue.
Readers Write on
Fame And Fortune
I was born and reared in southern Illinois, in a rural community so small that by the time the back of the bus entered town, the front of the bus was already leaving it. I was exposed to country music at a young age through my father’s record collection: Hank Williams, Eddy Arnold, Lefty Frizell, Merle Haggard. Their tunes and stories captivated me, and by the time I was fourteen I had written ten or eleven songs that I sang around the supper table and at our local pool hall.
I knew that the music I loved came from Nashville, Tennessee, so after high school and a number of dead-end jobs, I packed up my guitar and suitcase and hitchhiked down to Music City.
Twenty-five years and a hundred songs later, I’m still on the outside looking in. I live on Music Row in a cockroach-infested apartment with no heat or air conditioning, and I spend all my money on demos and food. I have sold my blood at the Church Street plasma center to feed my songwriting habit.
I’ve never had a song recorded, though I’ve come close a few times. It could be Music Row politics, or my lack of contacts, or the changes in the industry, or bad timing. Or maybe my songs just suck. My family says my songwriting dream has destroyed my life, and I admit there are times when I wish I had never listened to my daddy’s record collection. But then again, there was nothing for me to do in my hometown. I would rather be one step away from the gutter in Nashville than living a comfortable life back there.
Years ago, during a late-night songwriting session, a fellow writer told me, “You have to want this more than you want to be loved.” I didn’t understand him then. I do now.
Kim Harold Burns
Other personal stories were moving too. Here’s the link, I hope you’ve time to go through ‘em. Please.