How do you write a song?

This will work. I know it will. I hammer the stake into the ground at the edge of the dirt path. It is pretty here—a shaded pathway with fragrant wildflowers and pleasantly dreamy trees—and I’m guessing songs like to live in pretty places. There should be plenty of unsuspecting ditties here.

From my pocket I extract a thin wire, looping it into a noose to match my crude reference diagram, before attaching one end to the stake and propping the noose open on a separate stick. With sweat concentrating on my brow, I take a gentle step back to admire my work and wonder:

“Is that enough to catch a tune?”

A noise behind me. I do not turn around, for I know it’s just rational me, sneaking up upon myself to tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong. Creep, creep. The presence is at my back now, too close and in my space. I can feel the heat radiating from myself, and my own hot, thick breath on my neck as rational Janeen leans in to whisper:

“Songs cannot be trapped, Dummy.”

I kick the whole thing over in a huff and stomp back on the path.

What do songs like to eat, I wonder? I open a cupboard door in my kitchen and eye the assorted cans, packets of food, and random bottles of flavorful liquids. I’m torn between something sweet (for I would like a sweet song to come to me), and something of a gut punch. You know—spicy meaning with the burn of action. My hand reaches toward the jar of Chili Crunch, before swerving last second to the honey. Sweet, sweet honey.

If I dribble this honey to create a glistening and sticky pool with its faint scent filling the air, it will perhaps attract a sweet melody like an ant or a bear or an ant/bear hybrid? The moment it appears, I shall swing my net in a wide and loving arc that will gently entangle the creature and bring it into my world. Yes. That’s how I will trick the song into existence.

I begin to pour.

A noise behind me. I do not turn around, for I know it’s just rational me, sneaking up upon myself to tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong. Creep, creep. The presence is at my back now, too close and in my space. I can feel the heat radiating from myself, and my own hot, thick breath on my neck as rational Janeen leans in to whisper:

“Songs are not ants, Dimwit.”

I stick my fingertip in the honey. Draw an angry face. Suck away the evidence.

Like twigs of angry origin, my fingers snap and crackle their protest. They are old and annoyed and don’t bend the way they need to for this assignment. The shapes are awkward and, not for the first time, I think, “You really should have started learning this when you were younger instead of that useless clarinet.”

I know five chords, which is two chords too many. From what I understand you only need three chords and the truth. Or is that just for country songs? If my fingers are protesting, does that mean I’ll only write protest songs? *boom-tish!* Are they called frets because that’s all you do when you’re trying to write a song? What comes first, words or melody?

So many questions, so little patience.

With the guitar to one side, I look down at the board before me and put my fingers on the planchette.

Oh great Ouija Board, where is my song?

Will my song come to me in a dream?

Will my song come to me through a crack under the door?

Will it come to me when I call?

Will it come to me at all?

My fingers hurt, but do they need to bleed?

Is it breathwork? Is it homework? Is it footwork? Is it God’s work?

A noise behind me. I do not turn around, for I know it’s just rational me, sneaking up upon myself to tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong. Creep, creep. The presence is at my back now, too close and in my space. I can feel the heat radiating from myself, and my own hot, thick breath on my neck as rational Janeen leans in to whisper:

“You’re overthinking this, Birdbrain.”

I turn and look myself in my stupid face as it blinks back at me.

No,” I say. “I’m OVER thinking ABOUT this. Numbskull. Ninny. Dick.”

Spirits scatter as I rise and stomp off to make a comfort sandwich.

The guitar says nothing1.

I listen to some episodes of Song Exploder to try to unravel the mystery.

I watch videos of musicians talking about songwriting.

“Keep the music simple if the lyrics are complicated,” says Buffy Sainte-Marie. Simple. I can do simple.

I fall down a rabbit hole of protest and social commentary songs2. Do you have to be angry to write a song? Naive? Hopeful? You obviously have to be sincere. To straddle the line between potential corny and conviction. You have to believe it.

Can I be sincere?

I pick up and read a few more chapters from the book “Songwriters on Songwriting”3. I put it back down after re-reading the Paul Simon interview.

My sigh is deeper than the Mariana Trench.

My yearning is extremely vocal and amplified.

Paul McCartney seemed to pluck “Get Back” from out of the air4. Like, the literal air! I have access to air. Does it need to be thin air? Is that where songs live? Is it ok if the air is a little briny? I’m quite close to the beach. Will the marine layer eat the paint off songs?

What will my song look like when it is born?

What will it be? Serious? Anthemic? Silly?

“And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead”5

Looking at Dylan lyrics is not helpful.

A noise behind me. I do not turn around, for I know it’s just rational me, sneaking up upon myself to tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong. Creep, creep. The presence is at my back now, too close and in my space. I can feel the heat radiating from myself, and my own hot, thick breath on my neck as rational Janeen leans in to whisper:

“There is a list of things I know and a list of things I don’t know and the list of things I don’t know is long.”

I wait for more, but nothing more comes from the hot and dank breath at my ear. I wait a little longer.

Was that the first line of a song? Are you telling me that I should stop being so precious about it? To stop thinking it’s some kind of dark art? Witchcraft? Sorcery? Black Magic? Is the message that songs cannot be willed into existence and that I should approach the process of making one like I approach everything else—blindly but with persistence? Should I slough at the skin of TRY until the flesh of DO is exposed? What if all I get is do-do?

Or are you telling me that you have no idea just like the rest of us, you planet-sized mouthbreather?

There is a list of things I know and a list of things I don’t know and the list of things I don’t know is long.

I pick up the guitar.

I punch myself in the face.

I work on the list.6  

Listen to me read this post to you, here 👇

How do you write a song? - Field of Streams

Songs. I love them. But how on earth do you write one? Where do you start? This week, I dive into my various methods of attempting to figure out how to “catch” a song. You can follow the songwriter I mentioned in the episode - FogChaser - via his…

Buzzsprout

This week’s amends…

“MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY MUSE IS A DELICATE ONE AT THE BEST OF TIMES AND I FEEL THAT IT IS MY DUTY TO PROTECT HER FROM INFLUENCES THAT MAY OFFEND HER FRAGILE NATURE.

SHE COMES TO ME WITH THE GIFT OF SONG AND IN RETURN I TREAT HER WITH THE RESPECT I FEEL SHE DESERVES — IN THIS CASE THIS MEANS NOT SUBJECTING HER TO THE INDIGNITIES OF JUDGEMENT AND COMPETITION. MY MUSE IS NOT A HORSE AND I AM IN NO HORSE RACE AND IF INDEED SHE WAS, STILL I WOULD NOT HARNESS HER TO THIS TUMBREL — THIS BLOODY CART OF SEVERED HEADS AND GLITTERING PRIZES. MY MUSE MAY SPOOK! MAY BOLT! MAY ABANDON ME COMPLETELY!"

Excerpt from Nick Cave’s rejection letter to MTV Award organizers, turning down his nomination for Best Male Artist in 1996. You can read the full rejection here.

Via the always great Letters of Note

On Rotation: “People Have the Power” by Patti and Fred

I LOVE this live performance that Patti shared in her newsletter the other day.

People have the power
People have the power
People have the power
People have the power

The power to dream, to rule
To wrestle the world from fools
It's decreed: the people rule
It's decreed: the people rule
Listen. I believe everything we dream
Can come to pass through our union
We can turn the world around
We can turn the earth's revolution

And this Choir Choir version brings all the feels.

As always, you can follow a playlist with all songs featured right here.

Speaking of tricks and dark arts, some of this card manipulation really breaks my brain.

Via Kottke

Did any of this spark a tiny thought of your own?

Shameless Podcast Plug

Listen to audio versions of early issues of The Stream on my podcast, Field of Streams, available on 👉 all major podcasting platforms 👈

Here’s Apple