WNP: "She sang a song I’d never heard, and yet it felt so familiar."
I was sitting in a corner booth, over under the mirrors and behind the long wall of books at The Library, when I first heard her sing. It was a small eclectic bar and coffeehouse that sometimes had poetry readings or musicians of an evening. Someplace I'd been going after work for months to swig a beer or sip a cup of coffee, pretending to myself I was writing the Great American Novel in my battered composition books. Mostly though, I was just writing scribbles. Fragments of thought; bits of story; random associations; little pieces of words that didn't quite make a poem. None of it had yet coalesced into "something more". I used to think that, hopefully, if I kept showing up at the page, the story would to. One day. Or so I liked to comfort myself.
She sang a song that night I'd never heard, and yet it felt so familiar. Like a long drink of water shivering down the core of my bones. That night, I wrote my first complete set of song lyrics.
~excerpted from an interview on the source of inspiration with Adele Simons, lyricist