Honesty Isn't Always Best

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.

“Three chords and the truth” is a phrase that’s long been associated with country music. We hear that phrase often as songwriters, implying that there is a simplicity and directness that translates into honesty or ultimate truthfulness. In the singer/songwriter world we might interpret honesty as the same as vulnerability. These days, I sometimes hear songs that feel more like journal entries set to music, revealing every thought, every feeling, every detail. But honesty isn’t the same as telling everything. Often, the most honest songs are the ones that hold a little something back. It’s about focus, or what a song chooses to show.

There’s a song Miranda Lambert sings called “The House That Built Me.” In it, we’re given just a few details including a return to a childhood home, a brief conversation with the current owner, handprints on the front steps. The song doesn’t catalog memories or explain how she feels about them. It simply places us in the moment with her, trusting us to fill in the rest. We begin to see what she sees, feel what she feels.

There’s something powerful about that kind of restraint. When a writer selects just a few specific details, something begins to take shape. We understand the character and sense the emotional weight without being told exactly how to feel.

This is the point with regard to honesty where music becomes a critical piece of the conversation. In “The House That Built Me,” everything about the musical setting supports the lyric. The tempo is steady and unhurried, the chords are spaced apart, and the melody stays contained as the story unfolds. There’s a sense of reflection—even hesitation—that allows us to feel what she’s feeling.

It can feel counterintuitive, but emotional depth often comes from saying more with less. More chords or more words don’t necessarily deepen a song and often, they dilute it. When we skim across too many ideas, the listener isn’t sure where to land, and the experience becomes neutral rather than moving. But when a song is clear and focused, the listener begins to participate, shifting from distance to investment.

If you tend to lead with lyrics, it’s natural to spend most of your time refining them. But sometimes, the next step forward is focusing on the music instead. Try starting with something simple, such as two chords instead of four, or leaning into a harmonic rhythm that expresses the emotional state of the character plainly and quickly. Even choosing between a major or minor chord can shift the meaning of a lyric. Once that foundation feels right, the rest of the song often unfolds more naturally.

Honest songwriting isn’t about saying everything. It’s about choosing what matters most, in both lyric and music, so the listener can go with us, together.

If these ideas resonate with you, we’d love to have you join us at our California Songwriting Retreat in Idyllwild, where we explore tools like these through workshops, co-writing, and creative community.