When the Music Lands
A week ago, my sister and I took a sisterly detour to Atlanta. It was my spring break; she had a few free days, so she flew in from Kansas City. I’d been struggling with a new writing project—my first adult novel—and felt oddly disconnected from it, like I was circling something I couldn’t quite touch. My creativity had gone quiet. I told myself a break might help. Music usually does.
I had no idea the night would do more than entertain me. It would recalibrate me.
At City Winery Atlanta, we found ourselves so close to the stage the music didn’t reach us—it landed. Elbows perched on the wooden edge like I belonged there (I did not), I settled in for what felt like more than a concert. I watched Mac McAnally do what only the most seasoned artists can: make mastery look effortless. A ten-time Musician of the Year, he played songs like It’s My Job and Island Rain not as performances, but as lived-in truths. They didn’t pass through the room—they stayed, hovering, familiar, like something you forgot you knew.
Beside him, Eric Darken played with a presence that felt almost elemental. This wasn’t performance—it was immersion. Each beat landed not in the air, but in the body. The rhythm became something physical, shared, undeniable.
And just a few feet away, I was eating a Caesar salad like it was my final act on earth.
There is no graceful way to admit I may have locked eyes—mid-crunch—with a man fully absorbed in his craft. A man offering everything he had to the music, while I absolutely demolished some romaine. At best, it was a contrast in commitment.
But maybe that’s part of it—the beautiful absurdity of being human in a moment that is both extraordinary and completely ordinary. Because somewhere between the lyrics and the rhythm, between mastery and my unapologetic salad consumption, something in me shifted.
There’s a particular kind of magic in witnessing people fully inhabit their craft. It doesn’t just move you—it realigns you. Music has always done that for me: gathering the scattered pieces of my attention and handing them back sharpened, focused, whole.
And just like that, my novel—set in 1800s Key West—is calling again. No longer distant or dim, but louder. Clearer. Alive.
So here’s to sisters, great music, front-row seats, master artists, forgiving percussionists, and the creative sparks that arrive exactly when you need them.
Until Then…
Thank you for being here and following along.
Keep your heart open, your courage ready, and remember:
One small brave thing at a time.
