a class of young doctors in a small delivery room in Warren, Ohio, there to witness their

first live birth. As I was born, the room burst into applause.

Hanging upside down, covered in blood, screaming as I'm being spanked by a complete stranger.

Perhaps the most appropriate preparation for becoming a working musician.

So it wasn't long until I had my first guitar, an old Sears Silvertone with an amp built

into the case. It smelled like an old attic full of mothballs

and burning wire. But it instantly became my obsession.

It became my religion. The reward of playing a song from beginning

to end without making a mistake. Well, that was enough to feed me for weeks.

The discovery of a new chord or a new scale could make me forget about that kid at high

school who wanted to kick my fucking ass. I starved.

My hands bled. If I slept, I slept on floors.

I slept on stages. I slept on the fucking floors under the fucking

stages. And I loved every minute of it.

But where do you go from there? How do you now define success?

Is it still the reward of playing a song from beginning to end without making a mistake?

Is it still finding that new chord or scale that makes you forget all of your troubles?

Remember learning your first song or riff or writing your first lyric?

There's no guilt then. Remember that simple reward of just playing

music? It's your voice.

Cherish it, respect it, nurture it, challenge it, stretch it, scream it until it's fucking

gone. Because everyone's blessed with at least that.

And who knows how long it will last.