Inspiration is generous, but it certainly isn't tidy. In my house, it hands me a feeling, a phrase, a fragment of melody, a mood I can't quite name and then it walks off with me standing there holding something important that lacks shape. My instinct is to push harder, to demand that the idea reveal itself. But pushing rarely works on something this half-formed. 

I remember my first trips to Nashville as a new writer, eager to soak up every drop of good advice that might help me write commercially viable songs. As is often the case, that advice came packaged for general use. Though much of it was inarguably true, how I was supposed to apply it to my own situation was up to me. And as with most wisdom earned through experience, the advice around honesty in songwriting didn’t fully land until I’d written enough dishonest songs to feel the difference.

I used to equate good songs with sophisticated songwriting. If you had asked me what sophisticated meant, I’d have described it as chords I could barely play, completely original melodies and harmonic movement, and a lyric theme nobody had ever expressed before. Clearly by that measure, I wouldn’t be threading my own needle any time soon. It took awhile to recognize that complicated didn’t equal inspired, and simple didn’t equate to forgettable.

I was never very good at Blackjack. Too much about gambling leaks out my control, and when my husband and I were $80 bucks down one whimsical Vegas trip back in 2007, I was quick to put down the cobbash and head for the buffet table instead. At least there I knew I’d get a return on investment.

Sunday mornings are slow around my house. They weren’t always slow, particularly when my children were small and I was still in the thick of co-writing appointments, various recording projects, and networking functions. But these days, with a nocturnal teenager and a focus on my own music and teaching, I find myself looking forward to weekends again and the creative space they offer. 

There’s a reason why poetry doesn’t pay the bills. I may not be in my early twenties anymore, but I’m pretty sure Robert Frost never wrote a “banger.” A sacred and beautiful, moving expression of personal grief, joy, and humanity and a companion through the troubling times exposing life’s true meaning, sure. But a banger? My apologies if you live alone in a cabin in the woods.

We all stall halfway through writing a song sometimes, and when that happens, it’s tempting to assume we’ve run out of inspiration. But stalling usually isn’t a motivation problem, It’s that finishing a song requires a different set of skills than starting one, and most of us were never taught that distinction clearly enough to recognize when we’ve crossed that threshold.