It takes only a few seconds of Facebook to throw off my equilibrium. I believe this is exactly what it was designed to do.

Even if I went there for a specific purpose, I come away feeling discontented and uncomfortable, as though I accidentally read a friend’s diary. In a sense, that’s what I’ve done.

As a kid growing up, I didn’t know what parties I was missing due to my relative social awkwardness or what opportunities I was losing out on due to my family’s relative lack of wealth. I wasn’t even privy to conversations in which these things were hinted at. I existed in a small world, focused on the people and pastimes that mattered most to me.

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Every couple of years, my father does battle with the humid, salty coastal air to painstakingly, single-handedly repaint his entire cedar-sided home.

And every step of the way, he wants to show off his progress. “Come look!” If I am not available for a physical audience, I will get a report by phone of which sections have been done since we last spoke.

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As an adolescent, I adored the Beatles, individually and collectively.

A proper obsession began around the time I was twelve. Fortunately, we had crates full of old LPs and a bunch of books that allowed me to become a scholar of Beatles music and lore by the age of fourteen. I learned the story from start to finish, like a fairy tale.

But though there was a romantic beginning, full of ambition and beautiful leather-clad musicians and artists in seedy Hamburg rock clubs, there was no happy ending. Lawyers and acrimony…and later, a gunshot. Forty years ago today, in fact.

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When I was a freshman in college, my vocal instructor was about to accompany me on one of the Schubert Lieder when he suddenly turned around and asked me how old I was.

“Nineteen,” I said.

"When Franz Schubert was nineteen, he’d already written a hundred songs,” said my instructor pointedly. “How many songs have you written?” He lifted an eyebrow and gave a self-satisfied smile, then commenced the tune without waiting for an answer.

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When I was in my teens and early twenties, I wanted to be a professional singer-songwriter. I loved music and figured there would be no better way to spend my time than to write, record, and perform.

I found the life of an artist especially appealing. “Well, after my last album and tour, I needed some time. I spent six months in Bali. When I started to feel the spark again, I met up with my band in France, where we wrote and recorded our new album in three weeks.”

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