The Year I Got Bangs

And took a chance on myself.

Oh great, another artistic endeavour… the truth is, there are a million other things I need to be doing right now, like working out, making social media footage in promotion of my album, or doing my business taxes for the last seven years… BUT I made a promise to myself that when I got bangs I would start writing my book. (Or whatever this ends up being). I would begin writing, daily, for an hour a day. No more. No less. No ChatGPT. Just me, writing. Because this is what I’ve heard it takes to become a writer, and I have dreamt of being a writer my entire life.

When I was a child, maybe 8-10 years old, I used to play on a typewriter in our storage room, pretend-smoking cigarettes and working on my “column”. There was no ink or even paper in the damn thing, but my overactive imagination would be acutely aware of a tight deadline coming up. I was stressed and things needed to get done. In other versions of this game, I was a poet, occasionally converting the room into a cafe where I poured water out of a glass coffee carafe into mugs for invisible patrons and listened to jazz on CBC radio. We (me) would watch artists (also me) perform slam poetry, snapping and drinking coffee (water) out of our mugs.

I don’t know where these aspirations came from. My parents were not struggling artists, although both creative. Mom had a talent for interior and landscape design, and dad was a video editor who became a pioneer in the Vancouver film scene, eventually running a special effects company. Neither of them smoked (while I was alive), and we lived a comfortable, suburban life on Vancouver’s north shore. My sister was also creative, constantly drawing cartoons and making up characters, but she was an athlete and an academic, and followed those pursuits towards what later became a thriving marketing career. Perhaps my obsession with this ideal coincided with the release of Sex and the City? Whatever the source, a writer is what I wanted to be.

I had a reckoning with this a few years ago. I was living in Nashville pursuing my music career, struggling to makes ends meet while simultaneously partying way too much. I thought to myself “have I arrived? Is this where I set the bar?”.

It’s not, of course. In fact, I have grandiose dreams. Dreams of signing a music publishing deal. Dreams of writing songs with Adele, for Adele. Dreams of winning Junos, Grammys, Brit Awards. Dreams of signing a book deal (for this very book?). Dreams that scare the shit out of me to the point where I try to convince myself they are not mine. They are not wanted. And I have come to believe, that is why they have not arrived yet. I’ve been sending myself and the universe mixed signals about what I want for a long time now, and I’m over it. Hence the bangs.

You may be wondering, “Emily, how are bangs going to get you in a studio with Adele?”, and I’m not sure, but I’m here to openly admit to this page and anyone who reads it, that I want that, and I am committed to figuring out how to get it. See, the bangs are more of a metaphor (although they are very physically on my forehead) for my commitment to myself. To my art. To my dreams. I very much believe that you act your way into motivation. Even inspiration comes from making moves. Sitting at the piano. Going for a walk. Booking the gig so you’ll learn the songs, then undoubtedly being struck with an original melody you have to pursue, despite the songs that are waiting to be learned. Creativity begets more creativity. Which is also why I am writing this. I haven’t created in a while. I moved to London just over a year ago and am still building my music community here. I miss co-writing with my friends in Nashville and making music with my band. Then I remembered, I can create alone.

Almost a decade ago, I quit my band Champagne Republic (cringe) to pursue my solo music career. After four years together, it was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made, but I knew it needed to happen. Before my first solo show, I cut my hair and bought a very fun pair of pants (which became a staple in my look for years to come). It felt like a new beginning. A commitment to the pursuit of my dreams. I knew what I wanted and I wasn’t afraid to claim it. That year, I recorded a beautiful EP, bought a baby blue 1984 Dodge camper van (named Bessie Blue), and planned my first US tour. At 26, I was fearless. Two years later, I moved to Nashville, where I continued performing, writing and releasing music, and cultivating my craft. Two years after that, the pandemic happened. I went home to Vancouver for what I thought would be a couple months, and ended up staying for three years. This was for several reasons that I don’t want to get into right now, but mainly my dad was ill. His dementia had gotten to a point where it could no longer be ignored, especially without the distance between us. I felt I was needed by him and my family, and it was important for me to be around. Although this was a very difficult time in our lives, I am incredibly grateful I was there. I finally gave myself permission to move back to Nashville in 2023, after dad had been situated in a care home for over a year. He passed in April 2024, and I miss him every day.

ALL THIS TO SAY, I lost myself for a bit there, as my dreams were not my number one priority. This is why nothing is linear. Life happens. Death happens. Grief happens. Love happens (waiting on this one…) and derails us from the track we were on, full steam ahead. I thought moving back to Nashville post-pandemic would reinvigorate me with all the same drive and tenacity I had when I first got there. Alas, I was different. I wasn’t 28 anymore – I was 34. My ovaries were throbbing (for babies). I was enjoying the security a full time job was providing (oh yeah, I picked up a job working for a non-profit in September 2020). I was questioning what I wanted my life to look like and if that included the hustle and grind of being an independent artist anymore. I was pretty confused to be honest. Every time I thought I had convinced myself I didn’t want to pursue music anymore, this sadness inside my heart would throb, like that 10-year-old wannabe-struggling-artist was crying out “we just have a job now???”. I felt ashamed for abandoning her. I felt angry that my ego wouldn’t allow me to pivot. Was it my ego? Or was it my heart? Did I not want it anymore? Or was getting older making it feel less in reach? Then I took a trip to London, a city I’d always dreamt of living in, and within two days of being there, I decided I was moving.

Moving to London has been a lot of things, but in a way, it has felt like such a coming home to myself. To my dreams. I spent the last 5 years writing sad songs all about these experiences, and now I’m releasing my first full length album to the world, track by track for a year. It feels different. It feels aligned. And to be releasing it while I live here, in London, just feels so right. So, while these intrusive thoughts still creep in on a bimonthly basis (or once a fortnight as they say in the UK), I have decided to commit to my dreams wholeheartedly once more, for the duration of this album. Permission to re-asses in 12 months time. HENCE THE BANGS. Consider them a visual contract with myself, stating that we are going all in again, baby. Writing. Creating. Filling my life with all of the things I want it to be filled with, so I can wake up a decade later and realize I am right where I always dreamed I would be. No - not living in a basement suite, smoking cigarettes, struggling to make ends meet, but somewhere I can’t even see yet. I’m pretty sure it’s incredible.