How do I write a song?

Sadly, today I couldn't tell you.

There are many strange professions out there, and I’m sure they all come with their own unique brands of recurring hopelessness and built-in insecurities. Most of the time I feel blessed to still be writing songs. I’m mostly getting better at it. But although I’ve developed an audience over the years, it’s not like my listeners have explicitly hired me to do the job of writing songs. I hire myself to do it, over and over again. Bizarre.

I want to do it, very much so. But each time I succeed, it gets a little harder to write another one. Or so it would appear on a day like today.

I had to get out and get some fresh air, stretch my feet. I sat down on bench in a graveyard to soak up the sun. And yet, nothing came of it. So I took this selfie.

It feels like this: the more progress I make as a writer of songs, the more critical I get, and the less prone I am to letting anything slide in the process. It’s not even about any specific or technical thing, it’s about how it feels in the end. And when you expand your capabilities very slowly and gradually over time, so do your expectations. This much makes sense.

But, as we all know, an important part of any creative process is to not block or judge an impulse or an idea too early on. Which means there’s all sorts of ideas, ambitions and instincts colliding, alongside impatience and distractions, of which there are so many. The process is like this, more or less, on and off, at least half of the time you try to do it. Forever.

Granted, I was EXHAUSTED after writing (and recording) Avatars Of Love, and felt ever so happy to take a break from the flow of songwriting output for just a little while. That album was well-received enough that I could tour and bask in the joy of completed and fulfilling work. It also provided the desire to assemble and produce new projects that did not require me to write new songs for a while, such as Avatars Of The Night, the covers compilation Understudy, and the Two Way Monologue 20th anniversary reissue.

But I have to write, eventually. Everything I do stops if I do not.

Thankfully, I am well, well, well enough into the writing (and recording) process for the next album that this is no emergency alarm or desperate cry of despair. Although, I feel deeply incapable of anything, especially writing a waterproof song of beauty at this exact moment.

This rant is merely a glimpse into yet another day of trying. I have never wanted to rely on waiting for the song to present itself to me. I believe in presenting myself to it. Very often, nothing comes of it. But if I only wrote when inspired, very little would transpire. Sitting down to write, play, mess around, eventually will inspire something that leads to something of substance. Something that becomes a song. That maybe you play for someone else. That maybe you record. That maybe you release. That maybe you keep playing for the rest of your life. Or not.

On days like today the prospect of making a song happen feels so utterly impossible that I cannot fathom how I ever managed to write anything in the past. It seems a foreign and perverse idea that I even try to write a song. In general it’s wise to try to remain humble, and I want to be as humble as I need to be in order to not get in the way of my song. But I’m not a particularly modest songwriter. I am happily a medium, but I am not merely a medium. I have an ego. I care about each word, each move, each gesture, and what I do does not happen through divine intervention so much as constantly working and searching, rewriting and rethinking. And also: knowing when to stop and let it be.

Today, however, I am not so much humble, as humbled by how preposterous the idea of even writing the opening sentence of something — anything — seems. I’ve discarded every single combination of words that have come to mind so far today. I’ve been at it for 12 hours. I take breaks, of course. If not, you can really spoil the process because it’s such a taxing confrontation of your own most fragile and talentless self that you’ll end up dreading to expose yourself to that mirror.

The specific song I am trying to write today (and yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and so forth) already has melody, structure, a full musical shape. And it became somewhat of a problem child the moment I brought it to life a little over a year ago. It’s a tricky melody to write to, it moves quite fast, with many potential internal rhyme-schemes and a special sensitivity to syllables, vowels, and how the words roll off the tongue. How they SING.

So, for over a year I’ve been at it. I’ve had to put it aside many times, and thankfully I’ve been able to write other things that I am happy with the meantime. But every time I return to my problem child I feel increasingly self-conscious about how every new attempt stigmatizes this tender little creature yet further into a self-fulfilling prophecy of hopelessness. I’ll think about the song constantly while I’m doing other things. I consider other ideas and approaches, I get grumpy and distracted. Last week I changed the verse melody, and it felt inspired. But the words did not come. No words that were welcome, at least.

I’ll sometimes outline a song lyric story in advance, if I have a very specific idea and arc in mind. And then I’ll chew on it for months before I even sit down to try and write it. It’s how I got started on Guarantee That I’d Be Loved and Dead Of The Night, among others. I’ve tried approaching this one that way, employing some of the tools I’ve developed over the years. Clearly, I am experienced enough to know that it’s not impossible forever. Although, right now, on this late night alone with my song-to-be, I cannot prove any of this.

One day I’ll nail it.

Today was not that day. And I get to feel utterly useless for a while, yet again. Other days I may feel despicably brilliant, or with a sense that I can will almost any song into motion. It doesn’t always prove to be true, and maybe that’s gotten harder now that my filter for what passes and what doesn’t keeps getting irrevocably stricter. Whatever that means: as I said, it’s mainly about the feeling I am left with in the end. Which is informed by what I am needing to say and hear at the moment.

It may not be within reach right now, but I have to believe I’ll get there. I cannot settle for “that’ll do”. I cannot un-feel this highly intuitive and elusive sense of criteria. If I did, there would be no point to me writing the song. The songwriter’s filter and instinct all you’ve got and yet everything. You start disregarding that and you’re left with nothing. Songs may come of it, but not the songs I am after. I’ve come too far to start that kind of bullshit now. It’s just getting good. Can I keep it up?

Perhaps not today. Not yesterday. In fact, this whole week has been awful, writing-wise.

World-wise, don’t even get me started. There’s so much evil and incompetence at play at the head of great nations and institutions right now, so we have to celebrate each glimmer of hope, each victory. And get to work.

A convenient reminder to self: the song that became Sentimentalist was once a hopeless problem child. I had the music but not the words, and kept trying for four years. I almost gave up. But then I didn't!

Relief will come eventually. Results will materialize. Inspiration will find you. If you can find a way to stay true to your instincts and not be discouraged while navigating the absurdity of your chosen profession and/or the world.

This is what I tell myself, so I might as well pass it on to you.

With love,

SL

PS! Some good news: the Sea Of Sighs vinyls are done printing earlier than anticipated, so we will start shipping in a few weeks. You can still pre-order from the US store and the Nordic store. Enjoy this mostly wordless little album digitally via Bandcamp or all the other places.