A Sonic Diary: Songwriting

There's only been two people who have ever sat and watched me write a song. One was my good friend Dan, who used to write little snippets here and there with me in high school. We'd skip classes to sit in the auditorium with a guitar and the old choir piano, playing chord after chord until the progression spoke to us. We'd add lyrics, one word at a time, always arguing over which sounded better, his version of the lines or mine--until we found a middle ground. That was true synergy. Working with Dan and seeing where his mind wanted to wander made me feel stronger in my abilities to listen to my own voice, follow my own path. It made me realize how distinct and different we each are--and how each of our creative contributions are necessary in this world to keep the ethereal pool of art alive.

Reilly is the only other one who has been with a song of mine from conception to the end. She's watched me pace, muttering phrases over and over, until I finally jump up like a crazy person, run to the piano, play three notes, and say, "That's it!" And she clapped and said with that funny face of hers, "Good job, sounds nice."

I've now written about a thousand songs. Each one has a title, lyrics, melody, and accompaniment. They're not all polished. They're not all finished. They're not all good. In fact, some are so embarrassing that I'd shudder to have anyone listen. I explained to Reilly yesterday that hearing songs I've written is like re-opening a diary--it's so embarrassing and revealing, and yet I am instantly transported back to exactly what triggered the song in the first place. It's difficult to relive those moments sometimes, which is why most of the time songs are written, placed in a notebook, recorded on my little tape recorder, and filed away to be forgotten.

Well, during a cleaning frenzy I found my stash of tapes and decided to have a listen. With every single note, even with songs from five years ago, I remember my hands searching on the piano, feeling the ridges of the keys, experimenting desperately, waiting for my fingers to twist themselves just so... And then I'd hit the right notes, and the universe would align and starlight would fill my body and I'd know--that's it!

Other songs I remember having one line or even a word--and the hunt to find the song that would match it would go on for months. I'd pull out the line or the phrase every couple weeks, seeing if I could make it fit in somewhere--and the puzzle would continue.

Reilly did tell me it was amazing to watch me work, to see a few random words and notes become a song in less than fifteen minutes. I hope anyone who ever feels even slightly musical knows the power that is songwriting. Forget about sharing it with anyone, because no one needs to listen to your sonic diary. To create with music is to play with your own world, to build volume and discord, fury and wrath and beauty and sorrow all together in three minutes, with just your hands. You can make stories without any words. You can do it with three piano lessons under your belt, or three decades of choir under your belt. Creating music makes you a maestro.

It's addictive. It's overwhelming. It's empowering. Try it. Get out your old Casio and play with the settings until it feels right. You'll be driving, nonchalantly listening to Styx one day and hear a familiar strain, something that sounds similar to what you expressed--and you'll get a little chuckle.

Dan, I'll be in touch. Reilly, get ready to see me work again. And world, readers, neighbors, friends--I'll have new material for you to preview soon.