Friday, October 7, 2022.

I put on a blue-gray buttoned dress shirt that morning, the one my wife calls my “Bill Paxton shirt” (she’s obsessed with Twister; DEAL WITH IT).

I wanted to look presentable. I had an audience with the King.

I drove out toward Studio City and the east gate entrance to Universal Studios, but I was more than 30 minutes early, so I parked my car on a little residential street nearby and just took deep breaths. I was nervous and excited and terrified and elated all at the same time.

I had met him in person one time before, but I was just one faceless journalist in a revolving door of them; a very special day for me, to be sure, but just another professional obligation for him. We’d spoken on the phone a handful of times—the very first time he called me, on another October morning nine years earlier, the first thing he asked was whether it was pronounced “GRY-ving”—and those were also deeply meaningful conversations to me, but they too were “merely” professional appointments with an established agenda and a time limit. I was calling on behalf of the L.A. Times or NPR, and he was granting a few moments for a few questions about something he was helping to promote.

Today was different. Today, I didn’t know what the meeting was about. All I knew was that he had, through his assistant, asked me to come to his Amblin office for something "brief” and “off the record.” All I knew was that I had sent him two letters, the first a year prior and the second one two months ago, and that the second one had prompted a formal response, communicated via letter, stating that he hadn’t changed his mind about not wanting to be a part of my biography and he was “unable to support or endorse this project.” “I regret your unwillingness to appreciate my position,” he had written—which did sting a little.

So what, then, was this sudden addendum to that letter—this mysterious meeting? I imagined every possible scenario, but felt there was a very good chance he was going to personally implore me to kill the project. And I really felt, if that were the case, I would be likely to acquiesce… and fold. No more John Williams biography.

This is a story I have already told many times, including here. I don’t want to repeat myself. I just wanted to commemorate the anniversary of that special day, and remember how it felt. The nervousness and the giddy anticipation. And the way it changed my life.

So many people have asked me, “Why do you think John changed his mind?” I have my cute answers, my more serious answers, my hunches. I would be so curious to know what John would say if someone asked him. The fact is, I will never completely know why he changed his mind and invited me in. And I should stress that, on the day of that first meeting, he had not decided to participate or help me—he actually said he couldn’t be bothered. But, some switch had flicked inside him between the day he wrote that formal regrets letter and the day he asked for this meeting. A little door somewhere inside of him cracked open.

Did he know that, in doing so, he was granting my greatest wish? I had long wanted to write a book about him, yes—but even more than that was the wish born decades earlier when I was a little boy: I wanted to spend (quality) time with him. To get to know him. To ask him questions, explore his mind.

Think about who that person is for you—whether it’s a composer or pop singer or baseball player or president or novelist or theologian or scientist or painter. Someone whose work you admire and value more profoundly than anyone else’s, someone you have carried in your heart for a very long time, the person who you would give anything to have a private audience with, or break bread with.

John Williams was always that person for me. I have been so fortunate in my work as a journalist to meet so many of my heroes and favorite artists—from auteur directors to A-list actors to beloved singer-songwriters. It’s truly an embarrassment of riches, a wonderful life. To steal John’s comment, you could easily call my biography “Lucky Man.”

But John Williams was always in a different category altogether, a class of one. His music had been there since the beginning, and it occupied a special seat in my heart and soul. There was a spiritual connection for me, beyond just an aesthetic and emotional one. It was the deepest river in my inner world.

I have, several times throughout my life, had vivid dreams of just sitting and talking with John Williams. It’s usually in a giant (but empty) theater or concert hall, and sometimes Steven Spielberg is there, too. But the plot of these recurring fantasies is just of me and John chatting, and there were times when the dream lingered so strongly and palpably when I woke up that I had to remind myself it didn’t happen... and then I was sad. I mean, actually sad. Because I wanted it so badly, and I knew it would never happen.

On October 7, 2022, John became my Blue Fairy. He granted my wish. No request, it turns out, was too extreme.

—

So where do we go from here?

I launched this Substack six months ago, on April 1. My book has now been officially out for more than a month, and I’ve spilled many, many words about the book and John Williams (and myself) here every week. The response has been so warm and wonderful, and I have genuinely enjoyed this outlet and the small community that has formed around it.

The question is: now what? Can I realistically sustain a weekly column about the same general subject, the same person, indefinitely? Is there even interest if I could?

Would you take this VERY short survey and weigh in? I’m definitely not looking for charitable “Yeah, keep going buddy!” responses. Be honest! I genuinely don’t know if this project is worth sustaining, but I would like to do so if there’s enough interest and some suggestions for what you’d like to see here, because I have really enjoyed the project.

Start Survey