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chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 232
I break into tears just knowing all these words are inside of me. Of course, now I know they’ve been lurking under the surface all along, like a scared little blowfish, ready to burst. It feels as though I’m going under my bathwater, sweetly scented and warm on my body, for the first time in years. And still, these words only flow when I am in distress. What a cruel trick.
In the golden glow typical of a spring morning, I’m sitting on the sun-drenched sundeck of Daisy Jones's sprawling California home, where I find myself surrounded by the echoes of a legendary career that spans decades. The Pacific Ocean serves as a backdrop for our conversation about her new autobiographical book “ I am the Somebody: End of Fucking Story” , wherein she reveals some of her very own journal entries. Daisy, the iconic singer-songwriter, has graciously invited us into the sanctuary of her life, where she now shares her days with her husband, Billy Dunne. As we settle into plush couches with glasses of virgin mimosas in hand, it's hard to believe that the once enigmatic and rebellious rock sensation is now a matriarch, contentedly embracing the roles of wife, mother to two adult daughters, and grandmother to three lively grandkids, all the while remaining one of the greatest creative forces of the music industry. Today, we delve into the extraordinary chapters of Daisy Jones's life, exploring the evolution of her music, the intimate moments that shaped her, and the dynamics of her enduring marriage.
Interviewer: Daisy, your new autobiographical book is generating quite a buzz, especially with the inclusion of excerpts from your past diaries. Can you share with us how revisiting those personal writings has influenced your perspective on your own songwriting?
Daisy Jones: Oh, absolutely. Going back through those old diaries was like stepping into a time machine. It's funny how the words we jot down in the moment can hold so much weight later on. The pages gave me a glimpse into the raw emotions that fueled many of my songs. It's like rediscovering the roots of my creativity.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 244
I think hearing you play the guitar would stitch up my wounds, heal my scars and bind me back together into the person I was before I learned all the ways a person can tear me apart.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 256
“This is new for me too.” I hope you aren’t like every other man on the face of God’s green earth. I hope you meant every word you ever said to me because I am sick and tired of duplicitous love. I am ready to get off the rollercoaster, please! Oy, somebody let me down! I did not pay for this ride.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 269
I hold your absence at my core, as if that and everything were synonymous.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 269
I’ve been trying for quite some time now to find dignity in my longing for you. I have done many hard things in life – left many homes and burned many bridges – but for some reason this feeling seems insurmountable.
Interviewer: Your songwriting has often been praised for its emotional depth. How do you think some of your experiences, as revealed in the diaries, have evolved and influenced your approach to creating music over the years?
Daisy Jones: Life is a constant ebb and flow, and my songwriting reflects that. What's different now is that I'm more aware of the transformative power of both joy and heartache. Those diaries capture moments of vulnerability, heartbreak, and triumph. Bringing those experiences into my music adds a certain richness — a genuine, lived-in quality that I hope resonates with listeners.
Interviewer: The authenticity in your storytelling is truly remarkable. How do you deal with being so open about your personal life while maintaining a sense of privacy?
Daisy Jones: It's a delicate balance, isn't it? (smiles) Sharing my experiences is a way of connecting with the audience, but I'm mindful of keeping a part of myself just for me. It's about finding that sweet spot where vulnerability meets strength, allowing people to relate to the human behind the songs.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 263
Now come to think of it, you are the only person who knows my deepest romantic desire — to slow dance in the kitchen in the middle of the night.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 266
I never would’ve guessed it, but I look for you in writing – in literature. I find that is where you reside, to me. Between the crinkled yellow pages of an old favorite or in the smell of cracking open a new book. You are the bleeding ink and the sound of pages turning, always turning, never staying put in the same place for long. Maybe that is how I’ll keep us alive.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 231
The day I finally get sick of worshiping at the altar of the myth I made of you will be the day I let the sharp gusts of winter wind freeze my face, the day the dim sunlight creeps in through my window and I’ll forget about you long enough to laugh at these words. Still — I wish you weren’t a myth or legend — the stories I share with Simone on the couch. I want to conjure you up with my mind and have you be real, here, tangible, touching me every moment of every day.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 232
I crave a love without calculation and devoid of pretense. I’m so thirsty for it, nothing can quench it but the real deal. For a second I thought you were the real deal.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 276
When those first few chords strike, my eyes beg to be closed so a reel of you and I can play for two minutes and thirteen seconds. First, I see you in the blue light and I feel your hand on my dress, pulling me closer to kiss you while the crowd cheers just out of view. I still keep my eyes closed, and I see you holding my hand in the car while we’re driving down the PCH for the hundredth time, singing together, laughing together, under the guise of chasing that fucking song we just had but somehow lost in a moment. I taste cinnamon on your lips and it’s deliriously addictive. My eyes are still closed when you pull me in for a kiss when the light turns red. And you do it again and again and again. I love to feel the urgency of your lips on mine every time, without fail. And finally, I see us lying on your bed after being touched to the sound of your records. Me, in your shirt and my underwear, clinging to you as if you were about to run away. But you didn’t, you just held me closer and closer until I fell asleep. I’d never fallen asleep in anyone’s arms before.
Interviewer: There are a few of your journal entries that caused quite a stir. Particularly one where you wrote: "The day I finally get sick of worshiping at the altar of the myth I made of you will be the day I let the sharp gusts of winter wind freeze my face, the day the dim sunlight creeps in through my window and I’ll forget about you long enough to laugh at these words." Can you shed some light on the emotions behind these words, and does this have any connection to Billy Dunne?
Daisy Jones: Oh, God. How do I go about answering this? (laughs) That entry is like a snapshot of a moment when I was grappling with the illusions we often create about the people we love or admire. It's about breaking free from the myth and facing the cold reality, allowing myself to move beyond the romanticized version of someone. And yes, Billy Dunne was undoubtedly a significant part of that journey. (smiles)
Interviewer: The imagery you use is vivid, especially with the winter wind and dim sunlight. Can you elaborate on why those elements became metaphors for letting go of the myth? And did that particular moment in time inspire your song Snow Haze ?
Daisy Jones: To me, Winter represents a period of harsh clarity. It's a time when everything is laid bare, and illusions crumble in the face of reality. I wanted to capture the transformative nature of letting go, where the cold wind accompanies breaking free from the romanticized versions we create. And I’m not quite sure Snow Haze was written in tandem with that particular journal entry, it was quite a long while ago in my solo career. But I will admit, the inspiration for both was the same.
Interviewer: Which brings me nicely to the next question: your relationship with your now-husband Billy Dunne has been a topic of fascination for your fans. Can you share how this particular entry reflects the evolution of that relationship and your own growth as an artist?
Daisy Jones: Billy and I had a connection that was both deeply beautiful and famously tumultuous. (laughs) This entry reflects a pivotal moment when I realized the need to liberate myself from the idealized image I had constructed. It's not just about our relationship but also about my growth as an artist, acknowledging that the myth-making process can be both inspiring and limiting.
Interviewer: Some fans assume that certain entries are directly about Billy, given the intimacy of your relationship. Can you address those assumptions and clarify whether these entries are indeed reflections of your experiences with him?
Daisy Jones: It's fascinating how people interpret art, and while I appreciate the curiosity, I've never explicitly confirmed or denied specific individuals in my entries. Relationships are nuanced, and my writing often draws from a mosaic of experiences. People assume, but the beauty of art lies in its ability to be open to interpretation, allowing each listener or reader to connect with it in their own way.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 243
I am incessant in my homemaking. How traditional of me, isn’t it? A bit out of character, though not at all. I’m a homemaker through and through – I bend over backward trying to make a home for myself. I do it by desperately trying to hold on to friends, recording studios, beach towns, men, longing, big cities, writing, Carole King, planes, and the scenarios that play over and over in my head when I’m missing you. I have wanted to make a home out of so many places, so many people, so many feelings and the way I do it is by conjuring up what life would look like if I let myself be consumed by these things. I have wanted to be so many different people, go to so many different places, and I never know when I’ll fall in love again — with anything. I cannot be stationary, I cannot hack it. When misery sets in, I let it wash over me as if I were the damp sand and the rocks on the shore and all my fantasies are the sharp, cold waves. And that is when I think of you, the eternal homemaker that I am. I weave it intricately, what you and I could be and what I hope you and I will be. I see it so clearly in my mind — the sun setting on waves I’ve never seen, the sunshine on my skin that has never been burnt before, the mountains I’ve never climbed, and the red earth I crave to lay on. The roads we will travel, the hours on the passenger seat, looking over at you as I let your music seep into my bones. The diners and dinners, the twisted bedsheets, and the words. The words, the words, the words are what I crave most. I hear your voice in my mind over and over again but I could never get enough of it. “You make everything better.” And the love. At least, I think it is love. I’m falling into this routine — of homemaking. And you are my most epic obsession, my freshest fantasy. I want to bury my face in the crook of your neck and breathe you in, to feel like I am yours and you are mine. But not in a possessive, all-consuming way. No, in a way in which your dreams and mine are one continuous line, never ceasing, always evolving — together.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 244
I’m torturing myself by listening to songs I associate with those days in Sound City. I should probably stop, but I’m scared that I’ll listen to any other song and relate it to you. My mind fucks me up all the time without warning.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 246
In another life (or maybe in this one) we’re sitting side by side on the couch with my legs propped on top of your lap and your hand on my back when our only care in the world is the Sunday crossword.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 246
Perhaps you are one of my figs, from the story. A day in LA, wandering around Santa Monica and watching the skyline from the observatory — one fig dangling on the branch. Then, a road trip through the desert and to the mountains, across red earth and burning sun — a big, plump fig. Late June under the lights, surrounded by laughter, beers and cooked fish, the water glistening beneath us — the ripest fig on the tree. Maybe a weekend in bed while the snow is melting and the sun is threatening to split the clouds in two — a fig wrinkling and weighing down the branch.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 245
I finally got my silver necklace fixed, after years of having it broken and tangled inside my wallet. (...) It’s silly what missing someone can make you do… like fixing a broken necklace or playing the same song over and over again.
Interviewer: Your “eternal homemaker” journal entry beautifully captures your introspection on homemaking and the myriad ways you've sought to create a home for yourself. Can you elaborate on what inspired these reflections and how this yearning for a sense of home has evolved over time?
Daisy Jones: I’m glad you brought that one up, my daughter tells me it’s making quite the rounds in public opinion. (laughs) The idea of homemaking, for me, extends far beyond physical spaces and the stereotypical notion associated with the concept. To me, homemaking is about crafting a sense of belonging from the fragments of experiences, people, and emotions that shape my life. In that entry, I laid bare the intricacies of the never-ending desire in my younger, more tempestuous years (laughs) to make a home out of the intangible—friendships, cities, music, and the ever-changing landscapes of my own longing.
Interviewer: You express a deep connection to your fantasies, weaving intricate scenarios in your mind. How do these daydreams contribute to your creative process, and do they serve as a wellspring of inspiration for your music?
Daisy Jones: Absolutely. The scenarios in my head often become the foundation for the stories I tell through my music. That’s why I find it so amusing when people link certain people to certain songs of mine – I mean, sure, they might’ve gotten the inspiration right, but to affirm that everything I’ve ever written in a song is derived from fact is just hilarious to me.
Interviewer: I see what you mean. (smiles) The recurring theme of yearning and the vivid imagery of places you've never been paint a poignant picture. How do these sentiments relate to your perception of love and your connection with those you hold dear, especially considering the mention of an "eternal homemaker"?
Daisy Jones: Love, for me, is an ever-evolving journey, and the yearning expressed in those words reflects the profound desire to connect on a deep level. The concept of being an "eternal homemaker" encapsulates my tendency to seek home in the people and experiences that resonate with my heart. It's a constant exploration of love as a transformative force that is quite rare and difficult to find.
Interviewer: Towards the end of the entry, you express a desire for shared dreams and a continuous journey with a special someone. How do these aspirations shape your approach to relationships, and have they found resonance in your life, particularly with someone like Billy Dunne?
Daisy Jones: You and these Billy questions. (laughs) He’s gonna get a kick out of reading this interview, I’ll tell you that much. But yeah, those aspirations are the essence of how I approach relationships—a shared journey where dreams intertwine and evolve together. There’s an italian expression for it – mi alma gemela , and my husband is the one who understands the depth of these aspirations. At the time of writing that entry, having that was definitely a pipe dream. But now that I think about it, Billy and I’s connection is a continuous exploration, and our dreams, both individual and shared, allowed us to build those parallel lines I so longed for in the Aurora days.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 232
I always do this. At least I’m predictable. Really. I could’ve won another Grammy by now if I put as much effort into songwriting as I do into holding on to people, clinging to them until my feet are dangling in the air. And I always, without fail, coax myself into believing — no, knowing — in my core that this one will be different. I don’t know if you’re different, but I can feel it. It’s instinct. Of course, my instincts have been wrong many times before. That’s the punchline. So sure, I know all of this rationally but there’s a stubborn rib in my body that won’t let me off the hook so easily. Oh, if only I could think of the solution to the problem and then just stick to it. But no, like I child I go under, sighing and moaning, as if I could ever accept my reality as it is. Perhaps I must believe that this one will break the mold, that you will be my one true love, if I ever believe that foreign concept. Maybe forever is just a word that comes before collected memories and not people’s names. But fuck me, you and I would’ve been so good together. The potential, always the potential, and never the wife.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 259
I woke up in sweats last night, after having you appear in my dreams again. It’s been years, so I can’t even blame your mystical apparitions on drugs. In my dreams, I saw you leave on train A. You left after saying I was beautiful. After spinning me around in your arms under the summer trees. After kissing all my anxiety away. You left after saying we’re the same, after promising me time and time again that we’ll see the sunshine together, the cliffs together, the mountains together. In my dreams, I’m not sorry that I met you. Tears spring to my eyes just thinking that someday I might not remember your bottom lip between mine, your hands on my face, the laughs that only came when we were together. In my dreams, I never want to forget how you kissed me when the lights turned red, how your arm was always around my waist, and how the wind felt on my bare skin when we watched the sunset. The sunsets. The oceans. The city streets, the water glistening, and the cobblestones. “You know what’s crazy? We live in California, the fucking ocean is right over there and I never ever see it.” I miss you. In my dreams, you said you’d be with me again by Christmas. I don’t know quite how to evict you from my mind. In my dreams, I don’t look forward to Christmas to see you. I want to not miss you. Ever. But I already do. In my dreams, when I sing It was always you for the first time, you say something back. You don’t place your hand on my knee and whisper “Daisy.” In my dreams, when I lay my soul bare to you, when I finally allow you more than a glimpse at the depth of my feelings for you, you reciprocate, you don’t stay silent. In my dreams, even if you know we can’t be together, you’re gracious enough to allow me the knowledge that your feelings towards me are just as burning, just as all-consuming. In my dreams, I don’t have to wonder… I wonder if you’re thinking about me. I know you are. You have to be. No one kisses you like I do. Your arm around my waist, my body covered in only your shirt, my head on your pillow, and the rise and fall of your breathing — that is better than any sunshine state or city light. I miss you. And I miss your voice in the car, with the top down and the wheels turning. I miss hearing your music. I miss the way your voice sounds when you love the words. Your words… I miss your words maybe most of all. I want all of them. I would kill for just one more word.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 239
I often wonder if my mother, and her mother before her, felt this pang in their chest when love was slipping away. Perhaps that’s a silly question since this weight has been out there for generations and has been passed down to me like a folk tale until now when I am forced to live with it every time a lover eludes me.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 298
This distance from you was hell on earth. I wanted so badly to talk to you, to feel just a little closer to you, but when I did it was like coming down from a high so high I felt like I was about to fall over and spill my brains on the cobblestones. Even though we hadn’t spoken in years, I still felt you all around me — in the books I read, in the songs that played while I was packing away my life, in the laughter of unnamed people on the sun-drenched streets of downtown. With each year that passed I felt you slipping further and further away from my grasp, as if this could’ve gone about in any other way. But these days have been some of the strangest I’ve ever lived. I’m neither ripe nor rotting. I’m still working on things of the past while preparing for the impending future that is looking strikingly different from any past I’ve ever lived. I guess that is a good metaphor for us too, huh? Our past selves working towards our present selves without really knowing we would ever collide again. At least I never imagined it. I thought you’d be tucked away in that corner of the drawer in my mind that was my early twenties. I never really conceived of a summer of being 43 and in love with you. Or a winter of being 44 and even more in love with you. But everything is changing right now.
Interviewer: Daisy, some of your diary entries beautifully capture the struggle between longing for connection and the rational acknowledgment of past patterns. Have you ever felt this way about Billy, and if so, how did he respond to your uncertainty?
Daisy Jones: Is this your roundabout way of asking if the entries are about Billy? (smiles) Since this has happened with many of my partners, of course Billy is no exception. As for how he responded to my uncertainty, in his typical straightforward manner, told me I think too much. (laughs) No, but he did reassure me that, even though we weren’t together for many years, it didn’t mean that what I felt for him wasn’t reciprocated. It just wasn’t the right time for us.
Interviewer: How did his response resonate with you, considering your penchant for overthinking?
Daisy Jones: It was a wake-up call in a way. Billy has this unbelievable way of grounding me, reminding me to live in the present rather than getting lost in my thoughts about an uncertain future. His straightforwardness and assurance brought a sense of calm, helping me to appreciate the life we share.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 237
I wish I’d let the moment we had in the chapel be the last time we saw each other. Maybe it would’ve been for the best if I hadn’t known that that was goodbye. There was no pressure. We were just ourselves. You’ll never know the pure happiness I felt the moment I heard you say: “And then I met you.”. It’s as if any doubs I’d ever had about us faded away in an instant. I still think back to that moment now, every time I try to pretend we never existed. And it brings me such comfort. It’s okay. I let you go. As if I could ever let you go, as if you were mine to do so. It’s like a fantasy. You’ll go back to the sunshine and I’ll stay here, burying myself in work and hopefully not wondering about a road trip to the mountains with your wife and kid. Wishing it were me. But I’ll never be. But again, it’s okay. We were meant to be together just long enough to make Aurora .
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 288
I want to curl up in my mother’s arms and have her dry my hair. I think you might understand how I feel.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 301
I love that you see me as a writer. Almost no one sees me the way I am and I’ve been burying it for so long that I’m afraid I let her — perhaps the real, full version of myself — slip away and hibernate for a years-long winter. “I can’t wait to read your book.” you’d say. And I’d always push back: “What book? I’m not a writer anymore.” And you never failed to pull her back in: “Yes, you are.” You are, you are, you are. I could burst into tears from feeling such understanding from another person. I never knew how much I craved it until I found you. “The way you describe feelings has me almost experiencing them too.” I want to write down every single moment I spent with you so you can feel how it was for me. Your effortless love pouring out of your lips, out of your eyes and your hands, as if you were a river rushing, rushing and winding, meeting the sea in a hurry. How I’d hang on every word you said as if you were my teacher, how much I admired every single detail of your life, of your way of connecting with others and yourself. The way I could hear the old brag of my heart that had long been dormant when you’d carefully choose a record from the shelf and flipped through them once, twice, however many times it took to find the words you wanted me to hear.
Interviewer: Daisy, your break from songwriting became a widely discussed topic among your fans and the music industry and one you briefly touch upon in a journal entry. Can you share more about that period and how this book, along with Billy Dunne, played a role in reigniting your belief in your own abilities?
Daisy Jones: The hiatus from songwriting was a profound chapter in my life. I reached a point where the music felt elusive, and I needed to step back and reassess. Writing this book became a therapeutic journey, a way to explore different facets of my creativity beyond song lyrics. Now, Billy, well, he played an instrumental role in helping me rediscover my passion for writing. He encouraged me to trust my instincts, to believe in the stories I wanted to tell. And if sometimes that wasn’t enough, he’d bring out the Grammys. (laughs)
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 297
I’ve never quite understood why I feel so connected to the ocean— chalking it up to a geographic affliction — but I feel as though we understand one another. It’s always pushing and pulling, yearning to reach something it never quite does.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 254
If you ever forget and I’m the one who remembers, I’ll forever be mortified.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 256
My mind is rotting with thoughts of you. My chest is weighing because the day is ending and somehow you’re still on my mind.
Interviewer: I’ve got to ask one more question on this matter: how does Billy Dunne feel about reading these intimate reflections, especially during moments when your emotions toward him are laid bare on the pages?
Daisy Jones: His head’s gonna grow three sizes after this, but Billy's always been incredibly supportive and understanding. Sharing those journal entries with him was like offering a glimpse into the most vulnerable corners of my soul. There were moments of love, frustration, and everything in between. His ability to appreciate the authenticity in those entries has been crucial in strengthening our connection.
As the sun dips below the California horizon, casting a warm golden glow over Daisy Jones's tranquil home, our conversation seems as though it is coming to its inevitable end. Before wrapping it up though, the door opens, and there stands the man who has been an integral part of Daisy's journey—her husband, Billy Dunne.
Interviewer: (smiles) Daisy, your journey is truly extraordinary. Before we conclude, is there a particular moment or realization that stands out for you in this retrospective exploration?
Daisy Jones: (reflects) It's hard to pinpoint just one, but rediscovering the joy of creating music with Billy has been a beautiful chapter.
She is, of course, referring to their new album coming out late July, featuring some of their old friends like Simone Jackson, Karen Sirko and Warren Rojas.
Interviewer: And speaking of Billy, here he is, joining us on the sundeck. Billy, how has witnessing Daisy's evolution impacted you?
Billy Dunne: (smiles at Daisy) Well, it's been a remarkable journey, watching her navigate life with grace and resilience. Daisy's ability to reinvent herself while staying true to her essence is her best quality.
Interviewer: Billy, your presence has been a recurring theme in Daisy's reflections. Can you share your perspective on your shared journey?
Billy Dunne: (ponders for a moment) Ya know what, someone once told us about twin souls, and I think in that moment, we both felt as though we were inevitable. Daisy's creativity, her spirit—she's a force of nature. Being a witness to her growth and sharing our lives, it's hard to believe there isn’t a creator who made all this happen.
As the evening enveloped us, the serenity of Daisy Jones's home echoed with the harmonies of a life well-lived, a love of words and music enduring through the years.
Interviewer: And lastly, what do you hope readers and fans take away from this book, especially those aspiring songwriters who look up to you?
Daisy Jones: I hope they find courage in embracing their own stories, recognizing that every experience, whether joyous or painful, contributes to the beautiful tapestry of their art. Life is messy, and that's okay — it's what makes the music authentic and relatable.
chapter 8: notes from his periphery, page 300
It’s funny how, when you’re younger, you always see love as this mythical entity, one you never quite understand but trust that when you feel it, you’ll know. When you get older, you realize love means different things to different people. For some, it’s a synonym of forgiveness or contentment. I think maybe for me, love is understanding. I’ve never felt it more deeply than I do right now. Almost like a dinner party I’d forgotten to prepare for — the shopping needs to be done, the table laid and the candles lit. I don’t even have a tablecloth.