Hi, I’m Amy, and I’m a professional dreamer and sculptor of air. Or, to use layman’s terms—I am a songwriter. A shocking declaration from a Nashvillian, I know.
For the past four years, I have been busy climbing the golden ladder of success, rung by rung, contract after contract; suspended in my attempt to reach fulfillment, brows crunched together in stubborn concentration. My website will tell you that I have acquired some wins, met some celebrities, achieved some milestones, blah, blah, blah. These aren’t lies—but they also aren’t the full truth. In fact, I am actually astounded at the amount of unhappiness I managed to collect while supposedly pursuing my passion.
The problem was in the paradox—I was simultaneously dedicated to the pursuit of both vulnerability and notoriety. My earnest, thumping heart had led me to a career in the arts, its unwavering commitment to empathy guiding my pen, etching delicate truths into the ugliness of the internet, like a muralist using neon paint in a public park. People took notice, as they often do—humanity is starved for authenticity and color—and my innocent musings, pure as they were, eventually became—you guessed it—monetized.
Now, in the early stages of selling my art, I learned that the ego’s alarm clock is set to the sound of a cash register chime. And as that first ching echoed off the bare walls of my body, my ego sprang up in its bed, alert and awake. Hammer in hand, eager and waiting to nail the first plaque to the wall the very second it arrived at the door. With time, a few achievements did begin to trickle in—though slowly, and extraneously—and my ego went right to work, manically pounding away. Every time a new frame went up, I felt it—that sharp, tiny poke, stabbing at my insides.
Naturally, my heart also began to notice this painful distraction from where it worked diligently inside my chest, creating—and it was not happy.
Hey, Heart shouted, scowling at the disruption. Do you mind? I am working here.
So am I, Ego argued.
And thus began the headaches, the incessant war between purity and pride, and the source of my professional anxiety. Eventually, the hammering and bickering became so loud that I felt the need to wrap a piece of neon tape around myself, to signal a warning to any person wishing to work with me: You are entering a construction zone. Proceed with caution! I felt underprepared, overstimulated, and completely out of control of my body. The bratty ghost of my younger self shamed me for feeling disenchanted with the experiences I had spent my adolescence dreaming about; with equal fervor, my future self chided me for staying too long in a job that was draining my spirit. The exhaustion of trying to please everyone, including my selves, initiated a season of creative drought, as I funneled all of my turquoise, glittery energy into the task of keeping my basic life force afloat.
In March of 2024, the universe handed me a gift, through the long-awaited termination of my music publishing contract. For the first time in what felt like a century, I was free—and still am free—to invent my own mechanism through which to forge meaningful creative work. Of course, it is nerve-wracking to peel the name tag off my shirt that labeled me as Amy Peters, Published Songwriter, and replace it with a new, less dynamic title: Amy Peters. But despite this perceived demotion, I have a sense that my tide is about to turn, and it’s not because of any mysterious investor or prestigious industry connections. Quite frankly, I have no interest in becoming anyone’s media darling. My sole intention is to dip my bucket into the well of inspiration and scoop and scoop and scoop until I take my last breath. Scoop until my fingers are concernedly pruny and look like scary raisins. Scoop until my arms are drenched and sculpted with muscle. Scoop until the sun has descended and risen again a thousand times, mirroring me, moving parallel with the rhythm of my dedication.
I no longer want a creative job—I want a creative life.
My passion for writing may have publicly revealed itself through my songs, but the page has always been my secret companion. In this new commitment I have made to align with my truest desires, I’m getting serious about sharing the nonfiction I’ve been creating privately. I chose to name this publication Half Steps because it represents not only my career as a musician—a half step, by definition, is the smallest interval between two musical notes—but also my journey as a human, walking the path, making tiny progress, one half step at a time.
Thank you for walking the path with me. My hope is that together, through compassionate exchange and discussion, we can increase our tolerance for vulnerability, and expand the outer limits of our imagination.
With love,
