How yelling at my ex across a street helped me become a better musician

First of all, for the record, I hate saying "my ex." I don't know why it comes so naturally, but somehow it has been programed into me by way of romantic comedies and kids television shows in which 14 year olds have "break ups" and "get back togethers." (In the words of the drunk trying to steal our cab last night: B**** please!)

But I digress. The real reason for opening this blog is that I had a maturity break-through as a musician the other day: I finally learned how to belt like a broadway star, and now having done so, I see a sort of beautiful symmetry to the timing. I'm growing up, so my voice changes like what's going to happen to Justin Beiber any time now. Except this girl-woman version. It's like a metamorphosis for which I sort of feel a sense of gratitude to the man who helped me get here. Broken heart, string-along, douche bag Trial by FIRE aside, I was able to use my experience in love to propel me into a place where I could physically express a passion I've never been able to express. Why yes, my life IS a movie.

Belting, as it was explained to me, like any singing is an extension of speech. But there's an intensity behind it that is different from other forms of singing. I learned how to belt by harnessing the voice I had when I yelled F*** You across a street. It was crazy then, and it's crazy now. But as passionate as I am, I'm not a yeller. Belting is like beautiful yelling. Yelling with abandon. It needs to be vulnerable and full throttle, or else it doesn't work. You can't be afraid and belt, kind of like you can't be afraid while you're expressing to someone months of hurt you've been repressing.

So I have a different voice now. A new power, in a sense, that kind of came out of nowhere and everywhere.