Songwriting is painful

One of the great misconceptions of artistic creativity is that it should be an effortless, gentle and fun process.

In my experience, birth is accompanied by a fair bit of pain. 

Imagine the birth of a song like the beginning of labour.  You know the song is coming...you can sense its shape and energy and movement.  You know it already, and yet you don't.  You haven't seen what it looks like in the light of the world. 

In the final stages of labour (and at the beginning too, if memory serves) feelings of anxiety and even panic may come.  Can I do this?  Am I up to it?  How much more pain and time and stretching must occur before the birth takes place? 

I find that at both the early stages of a song's existence, and right at the end, I often feel deeply unsettled and jumpy.  Sometimes it's hard to eat or sleep. 

Not coincidentally, those are the same feelings that can arise when one is falling in love, working out a conflict, interviewing for a job, organizing a group project, or preparing to walk onstage. Something anticipated is coming, and it's exciting and scary, and it requires my full presence and commitment in order to come out okay.

For all the joy and excitement of bringing new life into the world, it's hard work.  It's often slow and painful and inevitably messy.  That's exactly as it should be.

If you feel uncomfortable when you're writing a song, it's a good sign.

Suspending Judgment

Yesterday I wrote a new song, during (and in response to) a day when I felt tired and slightly depressed.  By the time the first-draft stage was complete (the essential structure and melody in place, the chorus and most of the verses written, fine-tuning to come) it was the end of the day and I was tired.

Last night, when I went out to play, I told a songwriter friend about my new song.  I added casually "but I think it might be crappy".

My friend told me to shape up.  He reminded me how damaging it can be to say negative things about myself or my work, especially at the fragile early stage.  He said it's not for me to judge, and that for my own sake and the well-being of those around me, I needed to stay open and positive.

The truth was, at that moment I had no idea whether the song was "good" or not.  And yet, I felt compelled to to make a  pronouncement.  I have a tendency to judge.  Is it "good" or "bad"..."right" or "wrong"..."this" kind of song or "that" one?

My friend reminded me that judging isn't always necessary. 

Yesterday afternoon, I felt tired and over-saturated.  My state-of-mind coloured my perception of my work. 

This morning, I played the song again...and loved it.

Follow that song!

Recently I've come to the irritating recognition that my best songs are "better" than me.

They tend to affirm a higher calling or value (faith, love, forgiveness, generosity, hope...) that I want to live up to, but can't all the time.

A good song, though, lives up to a higher calling quite nicely.  It expresses its main idea consistently and clearly, and doesn't mess up.  Songs say something like "I believe in you" and leave out the real-life verse that goes, "even though I didn't act like that yesterday morning at breakfast".

Both parts of life's song are true...both the "good" and admirable part and the "ugh, I don't want anybody to know that" part.

Sometimes a little of that embarrassing stuff finds its way into a song and gives it depth and authenticity.  Other times, the ungraceful, messy and unfinished parts are for our ears only.  (And I think that's a good thing. The whole extended play version.) 

When a song lives up to our highest callings, reflecting our deepest values in a clear and resonant way, we must continue to sing it--both for others and in our hearts--especially at the times when we lose confidence in ourselves.  When we forget what we know. 

In those confusing times, we can let our best songs lead us.  They know the way.

"Liking" vs Loving

Recently I heard a friend express dismay that he hadn't attracted enough "likes" for his band on Facebook.  He felt that he wasn't making enough progress with his music, despite the fact that he'd been working hard.  He sounded angry.

I have to confess, I hadn't "liked" the band myself, even though I do genuinely like him as a person.  I notice that that phrase "like him as a person" sounds like romantic rejection--which offers a clue as to what's going on here. "She's just not that into your song" closely resembles "she's just not that into you". They both hurt. 

But which matters more?  Hundreds of "likes"--which may be superficial or (worse) insincere--or a few genuine "loves"?

In life, we actually only need a few people who genuinely love, understand and support us.  Chances are those few people will love, understand and support our creative lives too. 

Sure, there will be variations along the way.  Nobody can connect with every song.  And listeners will be influenced by the musician's skill (which can change)--and by the listener's beliefs about artistic expression, financial security and their own creative work. 
 
And yet, there's often a correlation between the people who truly "get" us and the people who "get" our songs. When love is present, a deeper support for the whole person (including his or her songs) is felt and expressed.  It's not a question of being "liked" but about being loved--and about loving. 

When we love others, we offer our songs to them--but more importantly, we offer our whole, authentic selves.  When we are at our best, we offer our whole and authentic selves through our songs and through everything else we do. 

As we give of our wholeness, we may find that popularity becomes less important to us, but that serving an actual community (of any size) becomes more crucial.  The more we love, the more superficial "likes" seem irrelevant.  

We may find, then, that our songs deepen and mature...to the benefit of all.   

Songs and Survival

The other day, at an open mic, a friend asked a question:

Would you be alive without music?

Some of us answered "no", some said "maybe"...but we all understood the point.  For many of us, music (or songwriting, or whatever creative activity lights us up) is a sustaining necessity.

It keeps us alive: connected to life, connected to others.

This is easy to forget sometimes, especially if we confuse "keeps us alive" with "earns us a living".  They're not the same thing.

When we affirm that music (Creativity) provides essential nourishment, we can enjoy it like food.  We can play (eat) everyday...savour every note...let it quench our thirst.

Music is surely not the only food we need.  And yet, it might be our favourite food.  Our comfort food.

So let us bless this food, that keeps us alive... the songs that sustain us on the journey. 

Practice Anytime

Songwriting as a spiritual practice can take place anytime.  We don't have to have our instrument with us, nor do we have to be sitting down in a quiet place with pen and paper.

In fact, when you're in the middle of "something else", your songwriting practice may be precisely the centering tool you need.

Some ways to do this:

- Notice your present experience so that it sounds like a lyric.  "One more day"..."if I only understood"..."peaceful street at night"--whatever arises.  As you notice that aspects of your life could be part of new songs (and you might write them!), you may also start to see a larger "song of life" surrounding all of your life experience. 

- Notice the song going through your head.  It will very likely contain a clue as to how to handle your current situation.

- Imagine elements of your life as part of a song.  For instance, how is your family like a chord? (Which one?)  How is your relationship like a melody (what kind?)  What tempo is your life moving at (and would you like to change it?)  

If these reflections turn into new songs...great!  If they don't, that's fine too.

Either way, you'll start to see your life in songwriting language...and use your life story in creative ways that make for meaningful songs.

A love song to life

Make every song a love song.

It need not be about a romantic relationship.  But it needs to be built on loving connection.

Your song needs to be intimately connected to something (or someone) you care about--something to which you belong.

Your song must be in love with itself.  Each line needs to love the one next to it.  Each chord must love the note it underscores.

The rhythm and style of your song must be devoted to your song's subject--must support it and care for it.

Your song must love its hearer. It must be written in such a way as to honour and bless its audience.

You need to love your song, and your song needs to love you.  Write the song that will care for you when you are sick, be present to you when you are lonely, delight you every day of your life.

Write the song you can commit to, that will commit itself to you.

Write the song that you love singing, that proclaims your love for the guitar, that speaks to your love of language. Write the song that testifies to the rhythm of life.

If your song is not a love song, it will not find its way into anyone's heart.  But if it is, it will live with you forever.

Even if your song is about loss, or longing, if it is written with love and reverence, it will reveal the underlying beauty of the world. 

Make every song a love song to life.

Write the Song You Need

I remember talking to another songwriter who said, "I don't want to write songs that will only be played in my bedroom!"

I know what she meant.  She wanted to write songs that were high-quality enough, other people would benefit from them, too.   We all want to do that.

But we have to meet our own needs first.  (It's like donning your own mask first when the aircraft suddenly depressurizes.)

Taking this approach can have big benefits down the road. 

This morning, as I started a new job, I had a few minutes to spare.  What to do?  Pray?  Meditate?  Fuss with my hair?

Suddenly I knew that the best thing I could do was to play one particular song.  It was the song I needed when I wrote it...and I needed it now.  I'm sure that in the years to come, I'll need it again.    (As it happens, it's also one of my most "commercially successful" songs...which is to say it's made some money and has been appreciated by many people.)

The point is: you matter.

When you open yourself up to the song you need (as opposed to the song you want or the song you think will impress others) the Creative Power is invited in.

Your own needs get met...and sometimes your song meets the needs of others, too.

Even if it doesn't, you will be strengthened by your song, so that you can serve the world in ways you may never have imagined.

Making Life Sacred with Song

When you take any part of life—a relationship, a life experience, an emotion—and frame it in a song, you treat it as a sacred thing.

By framing your experience in chords and melody, by writing about it in words gracefully arranged in rhyming patterns, you connect that experience to the divine process of creation.  

Whatever it is—something pleasurable such as falling in love, or an unexpected challenge such as losing a job—writing a song about it will allow you to be present to that experience in a way that allows for harmony and integration. 

Whether your song turns out to be "popular" doesn't matter. 

Simply by paying enough attention to your experience to respond to it authentically in song--by taking the time to try to write the song well--you will be paying attention to yourself in a new way: through a process that invites growth and transformation.

William Blake wrote “Everything that lives is holy”.  The experiences of your life are holy. 

When we see them as sacred, and use them to inspire our songs, we bring out a beauty in our lives we may never have seen before. 

Why Music Works

This morning I was talking with some friends about why music works.  I haven't studied a lot of musical theory, so my thoughts on the subject are intuitive and not based on a formal understanding.  But here are a few ideas:

1)  Music brings together differing voices (tones, sounds) that complement or harmonize with each other.  We need to do that in life, too, and it's difficult.  Music shows us it's possible.

2)  Music places moments in sequence in a way that is meaningful and interesting. Our lives, also, are moments in sequence and we want them to be meaningful.  Music demonstrates that they can be.

3)  Music incorporates surprise.  In a song, we're delighted by the new and previously unforeseen thing that arises after other things have led up to it.  In life, we need to handle surprises all the time. Music shows us how we can handle surprises gracefully. 

4) Music is ordered.  It's organized and patterned.  As the the poet Wendell Berry* and others have pointed out, order offers the possibility of rest.  Music makes a convincing case for order, inspiring us to heal chaos. 

5)  Music is balanced.  Music shows us how to balance the lows and highs, the lights and the darks, the points of tension and of release.  We all have both in our personalities and our life stories.  Music shows us the importance of both sides of the spectrum, while revealing the potential for equilibrium. 

6)  Music calls and responds.  There's an ongoing conversation taking place between every song ever written and every previous one, every note that calls to the next, and every singer and every listener.  Music calls us to respond, and we do.  Music teaches us how.

7)  Music brings people together.  Across a room, across time, across cultures.  When our senses are collectively captivated by a song, we feel held within something larger than ourselves. Music surrounds groups of people--not unlike houses, schools and churches--and, in doing so, music helps create community.

8) Music reminds us of our natural, physical rhythms.  Our heartbeats, footfalls and breathing...the regular patterns of night and day, tides, turning seasons, life and death.   Music helps us connect with the elemental facts of human life.

9)  Music moves in a circle.  It takes us somewhere but also leads us back to the starting point.    Though it wanders far from home (say, the starting chord) music tends to come back home in some way.  Much of life is like that.  Music helps us remember. 

10) Music is a gift.  Like the beauty of nature (of which music is a part), human beings did not "make" music, even though, with skill, we can cultivate it for our personal and collective well-being.  In its pure form, music can never be limited or sold.  Music lives wherever there is life.

*The poem "Healing" in What Are People For?  

You Are Not The Song

When somebody says, "Good song!" do you unconsciously take that to mean "Good person"?

It's something we songwriters do sometimes.  Without realizing it, we start identifying so strongly with our songs, that when we don't receive the affirmation we seek for them, we see it as a rejection of ourselves.

Writing a song is about framing your values, fears, hopes, loves and dreams in a three-minute microcosm.  Like life, our songs include light and darkness, highs and lows, moving passages and boring ones.  They're full of tension and resolution.  And eventually every song ends.

When well-rendered, songs are such lovely mirrors of the whole of Creation, we might mistake them for more than they are.

But they are only pieces of the Whole. 

A song--or even a group of songs, an album, a body of work--is only a small, imperfect representation of everything we are. 

When we see that, we can start to offer our songs more freely...without so much weighty expectation. 

Re-orienting ourselves to see our songs in proper perspective can seem, in a way, anti-climactic.  After all, it's thrilling to write a "good song" (which is to say, a well-rendered and faithful rendering of the beauty of All of Life).

But it is the All of Life that truly matters. 

Private Playlist

I'm one of those people who always has a song playing in my head.  Sometimes it's one of mine, sometimes it's somebody else's. 

But either way, it tells me something about what's really going on with me...often something I'm not telling myself, or anybody else, any other way.

Songs show up in the mind without being invited.  They're guests at the door...so, let them in. 

What's going through your head right now?  What does it tell you about what you need or where you're going?  The songs on your "private playlist" offer clues to what your life is really about.  

If you have a gig tonight, you might play a song from that playlist, not because it's your "best" song or "most popular song"--but because it's a song that comes from an authentic place.  (No one else needs to know what the song "means" or symbolizes for you.  The important thing is that you're giving voice to something deep within yourself.)

If you're not playing out somewhere, you can do this at home.  While at work, jot down the song playing in your head...and play it later as a meditation.  Or quickly, without thinking too hard, make a quick "set list" of songs you would play for yourself, right now. 

Not because anybody else is listening.  But because you are. 

One Gift of Songwriting

Right in the middle of the process, all seems lost.

I have a chorus, but no verse.  Or everything is done except for a few troublesome lines.

I know that everything might stop here.  The song may go no further.

It is this point in the creative process which may be its greatest gift.  I'm neither lost in the infatuated euphoria of my song's beginnings, nor happily satisfied with my catchy finished product.

I'm in the "neither here nor there", which can be a place of openness and wonder.  What will happen next?  What will rise up to fill the gap?

Something will.  And before long, another song will be finished...neatly framed and solid. 

I like to focus on that finished, definable thing. 

But I am learning that the greater gift is the Mystery. 

Fragments

People are always making things up and leaving them lying around. 

Some of our made-up things get "finished": framed in neat packages that allow us to hand them off to others.  Other artistic ideas are flung off in sparkling fragments, like oddly-shaped bits of sea-glass waiting to be found. 

Here's one I found today, buried in a neglected corner of my 'documents' folder:
 

I’d like to live alone

To do the things I like

  ___ unknown

Eat breakfast food at night

I’d like to live alone

To be all by myself

A solitary gnome

A cheerful woodland elf

  

Actually, today I'm very happy living with others.  And yet I like this unfinished little poem.  

I don't believe that anything else needs to be "done" with it.  It doesn't need to be developed or turned into a larger work.  In time (perhaps soon) the file will be deleted.  

In the meantime,  perhaps for only a short time and while I am completely alone, I can pick up a fragment and appreciate it.

Is every song a topical song?

Every song is written in a specific time and place, by a particular person.

As soon as the song is finished, the writer has grown and changed. (Remember the concept of wabi-sabi: nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, and nothing lasts!)

Ideally, we want to pay close enough attention to whatever's going on in our lives to we reflect on it accurately and with real depth of feeling. We can take that approach to any topic: whether it's feeding our two year-old or responding to coverage of a major international event.

The details will be different, but the task is still the same: to create something that honestly reflects one moving human experience, in a way that others find meaningful.

---

Last year I wrote the song "Prayer for Port au Prince" in response to the Jan. 12 2010 earthquake in Haiti. In it, I tried to make reference to the current events and historical facts, while wrestling with personal issues having to do with charity, religion and response to global suffering.

Here's video from a concert performance, with proceeds directed to Medicins sans Frontieres.