Corey Smith

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Bio

Writing a biography can be similar to writing a song, I suppose. If I make a commitment to preserving my stream of consciousness and resist the temptation to stop and judge myself it might even be as therapeutic. The problem is the scope. Thirty-three years is a long time to squeeze into a few paragraphs and I’m not sure my inner voice is capable of being so concise. Where do I begin? Where do I end? What do I include? What do I leave out? Yep. This is a lot like songwriting.

I’ll start with the present—the so-called gift of now—though I’m home alone and it hardly feels like a gift. Shannon and the boys (ages 4 and 5) left yesterday to visit family in Ohio. I would’ve gone with them, but I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning for a string of dates in the Southeast. The empty house is unnaturally quiet and it’s driving me nuts. Surprisingly, I find myself longing for the noise and commotion that I’m normally trying to suppress. It goes to show that sometimes I don’t know what the hell I want.