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"Day and night I am obsessed by the same persistent thought; I must write, I must write, I must write. . . . No sooner have I finished one story than I am somehow compelled to write another, then a third, after a third a fourth. I write without stopping, except to change horses like a postchaise. I have no choice. What is there brilliant or delightful in that, I should like to know? It's a dog's life! Here I am talking to you, excited and delighted, yet never for one moment do I forget that there is an unfinished story waiting for me indoors. I see a cloud shaped like a grand piano. I think: I must mention somewhere in a story that a cloud went by, shaped like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope. I say to myself: Sickly smell, mourning shade, must be mentioned in describing a summer evening. I lie in wait for each phrase, for each word that falls from my lips or yours and hasten to lock all these words and phrases away in my literary storeroom: they may come in handy some day. When I finish a piece of work, I fly to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope of resting, of forgetting myself, but no, a new subject is already turning, like a heavy iron ball, in my brain, some invisible force drags me to my table and I must make haste to write and write. And so on for ever and ever. I have no rest from myself; I feel that I am devouring my own life, that for the honey which I give to unknown mouths out in the void, I rob my choicest flowers of their pollen, pluck the flowers themselves and trample on their roots. Surely I must be mad? Surely my friends and acquaintances do not treat me as they would treat a sane man? "What are you writing at now? What are we going to have next?" So the same thing goes on over and over again, until I feel as if my friends' interest, their praise and admiration, were all a deception; they are deceiving me as one deceives a sick man, and sometimes I'm afraid that at any moment they may steal on me from behind and seize me and carry me off to a madhouse.” Chekhov And so it goes for this little songwrighter. A Jack (Kerouac) of All Trades and Master of None. However, I know a little bit about language. If you want a traditional biography of an aspiring singer/songwriter, you won’t find that here. Here you will find a short story about a girl who simultaneously knows very little and very much. At a young age, Corinne Wahlberg was destined to be a performer, commanding tears like a professional, singing just about anything, and taking her kiddie dance lessons quite seriously. Summers without cable became her introduction to musical theatre. One performance in a small town Wisconsin Vaudeville theatre singing “The Good Ship Lollypop” and it looked as if Corinne had found her calling. 10 years later, she put down the 16 bars, the tap shoes, the vaseline. She picked up a guitar. For years she had kept a small sentimental collection, something never taken seriously, but now- clear as day- they allowed something else to come out, a primary art, with language as her medium. The transition was not particularly unbelievable, growing up at Stone Soup Coffeehouse. The would-be Broadway actress takes up folk music. There was a Broadway divorce, a brief courting period with straight theatre, a passionate love affair with playwright, Jean Genet, and a long term relationship with the English Language. In lieu of a full out, folk-frontal-assault Ani Difranco-style, Corinne’s music career has been more subtle. Between working to build arts community in the City of Pawtucket, finishing her now completed bachelors in English literature, and getting used to being a functioning adult, making music is a pleasurable moment for both the artist and her audience. She’s on the down-low; on the tongues of local performers, and in the papers here and there. The music speaks for itself, as varied as the music this artist listens to, and constantly changes. Whether exposing the truth about city pigeons, scatting about experiences in the bedroom, expressing adventures in babysitting, or whispering, “I love you” though a love song…she’s got something going on. The sound has a base in musical theatre, the texture of a 40’s jazz singer, and some edgy nuances that makes for something different. In a world of music mass consumption, take a moment. Get in your car, drive down to a local venue, sit down and listen for a while. If nothing else, enjoy yourself. Life is sweet, and music can make it sweeter. So next time you’re riled up about a deadline, term paper, or what lemons life gave you, check out this songwrighter. She’ll cool you off, calm you down, and know you business socks off it you let her. 
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