That one comment
“And when they light up our town I just think, what a waste of gunpowder and sky.” - Aimee Mann (Image by Tom Hill)
Among Aimee Mann’s many beautifully poignant songs, there’s one called “Save Me,” that includes the lyric, “Can you save me from the ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone?”
And there’s a similar sentiment expressed in “Ray,” from her 1995 album “I’m with Stupid”: “I think I know another lonely exile when I see one/And you appear to be one.”
She writes on these themes often: The loneliness of trying to do something that you don’t think anyone will appreciate, yet feeling compelled to do it anyway; the frustration of being underestimated; the pain of, against your better judgment, placing your trust in someone only to be rejected; the ache of vulnerability as you continue to put yourself out there despite your increasing cynicism.
Aimee Mann’s lyrics have always made me feel less alone, even though I get the sense that she feels a lot aloner than I do. Still, I can relate to the experience of making something and bravely putting it out there even though you know that probably nobody will notice or care.
What’s magical, these days, is how easy it has become to find and connect with other people who otherwise feel isolated and disconnected. How a niche interest or a weird idea can create a community despite a lack of geographical proximity.
I don’t know how to make things appealing or interesting to a mass audience. And yet, I’ve come to realize that, just as I appreciate Aimee Mann for writing music that is not designed for the Top 40, there are people who appreciate that I’m not writing for a mass audience. They (you) are my people. I don’t have to change to be more commercially appealing.
Even though I’m not writing for everybody, though, I don’t want to write for nobody. So while I don’t crave tons of attention and praise, it means so much to me when I receive a comment that shows that someone is listening. They don’t have to agree with me, although it’s an extra bonus when they do — when they get it.
Sometimes, I’m so floored by a meaningful comment on my work — that sense of being seen — that I don’t know how to respond. I know that the person making the comment wants to feel seen, too, but I don’t want to freak them out: “Do you know how much this means to me? Do you understand that you just saved me from the brink of giving up?” So I get a little stuck, and sometimes it takes me a some time to formulate an appropriate reply.
I met Aimee Mann once, and even though she dutifully signed my CD cover, she looked like she wanted to cross to the other side of the street when she saw me coming, full of adulation. I wanted to fully express what her work had meant to me, but I managed to tamp it down. Being too grateful is awkward. (Anyone else feel this way? Just another thing to bond over with the other weirdos.)
I have resolved this, in my own way, by recognizing my power to help other people feel seen. Maybe I can offer that one comment that makes someone else’s day. And when they offer tearful gratitude, I will do my best to hold their gaze, metaphorically speaking, and receive it. I understand how they feel.
