Dear Rob,

(Can I call you Rob? Mr. Sheffield?)

I think you are a great rock journalist. You do not need me to tell you this because you know you are a great rock journalist. Millions have told you. You are kind of the perfect personality to be a rock journalist. You slink well and you are quietly perceptive. I admire that, especially the part about being quiet.

I’m writing you this letter because the other day a fellow journalist friend of mine told me that she was in a lecture with you and you talked about my band, White Lung. She said you “love us”. Honestly, my spirit did a little flip-flop of happiness and honor. YOU like my little, stupid, nothing band? Could this be true? I was flattered, then you put my band’s record Sorry in your Top Albums of the Year List on Rolling Stone. Thank you.

You see I am a rock journalist too. I know, I know. It’s dumb to be both a musician and a music journalist. It always gets me in trouble, but I am trying my best to find little loopholes that make it less “conflict of interest” and more “interesting take on merging career paths”. I always feel like I am failing at it. This is why I need you to mentor me or at least let us have an email thread where you say one inspiring thing to me. You may find that thing banal, but I’ll make a mountain out of a molehill and probably end up writing a song about it.

I am currently reading your book Love Is A Mixtape. I’m reading it slowly if only for the fact that I don’t want it to end. I started this column a while back called “Remembering The Dumb Moments That Shaped Me Through Songs” and I see the connection. (I was not ripping your idea off, I swear. I was introduced to your book long after this column surfaced.) Songs are so important. My whole life is sound-tracked. I can look back on every love, every fuck, every hate, every cry, and every blowjob through a song. Songs help me understand my life. They help me understand myself and the way the world connects itself to the rest of society. If music did not exist, I would be without a job, without happiness, without a true love. I know this is getting pretty lame and emotional, but I feel like you would understand. (After all, your ultimate fantasy is playing in a synth pop band with the girl you love.)

The purpose of this letter was simply to throw myself under the bus that much deeper. You know, really wedge myself under the wheels after that tweet. Go big or go home.

Thanks for listening and helping me with shit you didn’t even realize you were helping me with.


– Mish Way