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It really has been great fun blogging here this week. Thanks to everyone who has dropped in to read and to those who have taken the time to leave comments. Now, on my final day in the hot seat, I'm going to get somewhat evangelical.

Musically, we're living in an age of hugely increased options and unprecedented ease of access. It means more choice, but also a proportional increase in noise pollution. I'm not talking about the ephemeral stuff that forms the soundtrack to our daily existence: the TV themes, background muzak, computer doodles, and endless jingles that we filter out without even registering as "music" — usually with good reason. Over and above all that, and beyond the programmed conformity of radio, we are consistently colliding randomly with huge amounts of music leaking out from the rest of the population.

Like most of us, I suspect, I've always regarded this as a nuisance, something to be blocked out. But recently I embarked upon a bold experiment in sound. Instead of succumbing to the knee-jerk hostility with which I traditionally regard the uninvited music assailing me via ring tones, ...

Last year, I wrote a blog for the Guardian in which, tongue planted firmly in cheek, I fretted about ways in which I could ensure that my children grew up with the same — how to put this? — absolutely impeccable taste in music that I have. Should I force feed them a diet of the Replacements, the Blue Nile, Funkadelic, and American Music Club until they succumb? Or should I just let them listen to whatever the hell they want — even dross like Akon, for pity's sake — in order to foster an enthusiasm for music that would, eventually, lead them down the path to righteousness? (Yes, of course I already knew the correct answer — it was just a bit of fun).

At the time, they were six, three, and one. One minute they'd be listening to the Wiggles; the next, Bob Dylan. Over the past 12 months, however, I've been consistently amazed at the very firm choices they're beginning to make regarding the music they actively want to listen to. It's been great. And a real eye-opener. ...

I've often contemplated writing a work of rock fiction, but I've always been put off by how few good ones there are, and how easy it appears to be to become mired in the kind of moronic clichés that Spinal Tap lampooned so mercilessly. Which perhaps explains why, in the fifty-something years since Elvis told his mama it was all right, the Great Rock 'n' Roll Novel remains defiantly unwritten.

Sure, there are countless examples of novels that use specific musical references as scene dressing or as a cultural compass — few things more effectively establish time and character than dropping a song title into the narrative; and, it allows authors the chance to show off their record collections. And there have been several novels told from a fan's unique perspective, most notably High Fidelity. But I've yet to read a novel that convincingly sums up the experience of making popular music, or that captures the weird, savage compulsion that keeps everyone from Bloc Party to Bob Dylan traipsing around the world, year-in and year-out....

There's been much talk in the last couple of weeks about Madonna turning 50, but little discussion of what — if anything — it all means. Most of the chatter has concerned the seeming miracle of her physical preservation (though I much preferred the far more natural, ever-so-slightly-potbellied version that first bounced onto the scene way back in 1984) rather than any examination of her artistic progression over the course of the past 25 years. With an icon, of course, it's all about surfaces.

Part of the reason I wrote I Shot a Man in Reno is because I'm fascinated by the sight of all these rock and pop stars trooping into middle age and on into their dotage. How do they react to the process of getting older? They can either wrestle with the implications and incorporate their feelings directly into their music — David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, and Richard Thompson spring to mind here — or they can blithely ignore the passing of time and persevere with their tight jeans and improbably youthful haircuts, ...

You'll often hear writers say that starting is the hardest part. All that dramatic stuff about wrestling with the tyranny of the blank page, the haunted hours spent waiting for inspiration to strike or simply wishing for a sustained burst of consistent mediocrity to help push you out from dry land into open sea.

But, really, it's not true. Starting is relatively easy. I suspect famously fallow writers such as J. D. Salinger have started many, many new books over the years; it's deciding when and where to stop that keeps them silent. In all walks of life, beginnings are usually meticulously planned, brimful of good intentions, and erring on the side of hope and optimism for the journey ahead. Endings, on the other hand, like most goodbyes, are often enforced, clumsy, and just a little unsatisfactory.

In fact, it's tempting to imagine that the majority of books aren't definitively finished, and instead are simply abandoned with as much care and consideration as possible: tight deadlines, financial restraints, dwindling inspiration. Each can play their part in rushing a writer to the end long before they have exhausted ...