Why Do I Write Songs?
A question I did not ask when I first started.
Why do I write songs? That’s not a question I asked myself as a young writer, and if I did, I did not expect or need an answer.
The first few songs I wrote arrived as echoes, reflections of everyday life, and those few emotions that climbed above the superficial surface of the teenage status quo. I wrote my first song for my grandmother’s funeral. And the second, I wrote after my history teacher’s car broke down, hauling a station wagon full of students back from Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. And in quick succession, several angst-driven songs about darkness, futility, and other puberty-filled dramas I thought I should feel but didn’t.
Those songs, though under-engineered and overwrought, came quickly, naturally. They stood as extensions of my being. The lyrics, my ego, the groove and melody, my id, spilling onto reams of three-ring-binder paper like blood into a bandage. Writing happened without me having to try too hard and ask anyone who knows me; I am a guy who tries too hard.
Once I caught the scent of that first song, others followed like dogs to a dumpster, or maybe more accurately, like ghosts, to a creaky old house that won’t let the dead rest. Words have haunted me ever since.
I entered McLean High School in Northern Virginia, having traded my Star Wars lunch box (a year too late) for a jean-jacket backpack. I also carried my 1974 Martin D-35 in a sticker-laden case, along with a newly minted persona. I’m not bragging here, but possessing a persona, a look, some character about you as a freshman in high school is not the norm.
Writing songs as a fourteen-year-old allowed me to resist the urge to blend in and embrace the inevitability of standing out. Of course, I did not seek to stand out, but a young musician in school does so automatically, especially guitar players. I think pianos, and even saxophones, might bring more steady money later in life. But guitars are cooler, at least in the ninth grade. And they make you stand out in the only way palatable to a teenager.
Kids who walk the hallways wearing brown leather-fringe jackets with large Walkman cassette players clipped like future flip phones to their belts and puffy headphones hugging their ears also stand out. I added a little extra to that fashion statement by singing through the hallways loudly and a half-cent under pitch to the latest John Denver record. Remember, it was 1981.
A kid who sits on the concrete steps of Smokers Court between classes, with the druggies and the upperclassmen on the verge of playing hooky, stands out. When he declines the cigarette and the blunt in the one space, you can get away with smoking both; he stands out. When he opts instead to flip his dreadnaught upside down on his lap like a desk and pulls out a pen and paper to write, he stands out. Oh, and I forgot, he’s also munching on a quarter of a Little Debbie snack cake (the rest going to the king and queen of the court, greasing the skids of acceptance.) Well, that kid most definitely stands out.
I did not know then what a blue-collar musician was or that I would be one someday. But I connected early on with the notion of it being my purpose, who I was, and what I did. The thrill of being on stage and performing those songs for audiences came later but never overtook the adrenaline rush of the pen pressing the first word into the page and then pulling away after the last.
I understood the power of words after taking a year-long course in creative writing during my junior year. After that, writing became my drug of choice. I realized I could catalog the ups and downs of my past, sweet spots and struggles of the present, and dreams of my future. And later, I learned I could do the same for others.
Over the years, writing has been no less expensive than cocaine, no less destructive than alcohol, and no less addictive than meth. So even though I only dabbled in some of those real drugs, writing would not spare me from an addict’s dysfunction and its consequence.
Writing has made me an unstable spirit hidden behind a mostly capable body.
It has enabled the worst financial decisions of my life and humbled me in ways I never thought possible. Writing has cruelly ruined relationships, and in a mocking rebuke, allowed me to chronicle love’s demise eloquently in verse. It’s made me money, lost me money, and gained me notoriety, only to strip it away the moment I learned to enjoy it.
Writing has been a bitch, a bastard, a best friend, an annoying neighbor, a meteor shower, a small barking dog, a tick bite, and an orgasm. Writing has been a half-bowl of rice and beans and a perfectly cooked medium-rare filet mignon. It has been endless amounts of off-brand cereal, Friday-night whippets from discount cans of spray whip cream, and the occasional lobster claw with an ice-cold Shiner Bock.
Writing has gotten me hired and fired by some of the biggest publishing houses in Nashville and more than a few songs recorded. It has been both pitch-fork and blister while digging for fool’s gold.
Why do I write songs? I have only asked that question of myself in the last few years. I suppose the question itself is a bit of a sentinel marker. You don’t ask that question unless or until you lose the answer. With that in mind, I have produced answers that have been achingly accurate but not always fulfilling.
I have written for money and some minor fame. I have written to show off, leverage an invitation to the cool party, cast off bouts of boredom, and scare away the winter wolves of loneliness. I have written songs to bind and to sever. I have written to cast light and to shade, to truth-tell, and much, much less.
Writing for me has been a binary, almost bi-polar existence. In the best of times, it has left me ecstatic and relatively prosperous, if only temporarily. It has provided purpose and left me feeling proud, admired, and peaceful.
At its worst, writing has left me distraught and relatively poor, possibly permanently. It has stripped me of a rudder and burst open the floodgates of self-doubt and mockery. And it’s rendered my soul unsettled, just when I thought its job was to soothe the same.
Sometimes songs are born of personal experience, but other times, I rob those feelings from others, selfishly feeding a content machine that spins at an uncontrollable speed and intensity.
Why do I write songs? Having to answer that question by myself is a lonely and near-impossible task in the best of situations. But sometimes, a unique experience affords me a gift, an opportunity to have others answer that all-important question, transforming it into a passionate calling. That gift renews my artist soul, and I am inoculated, for a time anyway, against all my other answers. So words and melodies flow again with the mother’s milk of artistic success: conviction. If you can’t do something with conviction, especially art, it seems a giant moot point.
A weekend in spring gave me such a gift; conviction, purpose, and validation. I spent one May Saturday and Sunday as a staff songwriter for a retreat run by Music Therapy of the Rockies. Their program pairs veterans suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with professional songwriters on Amy Grant and Vince Gill’s farm south of Nashville.
I worked with two great vets. They were courageously ready to tell part of their story. The process, for the songwriter, involves talking less and listening more, catching stories instead of creating them. Helping someone put into words a story that can and has made the difference between life and death is a stark reminder of why art, songwriting, in particular, is essential.
Wounds open and close when I write them down. Fears crescendo and subside when I write them down. The past becomes the present and then relegates itself to the rearview where it belongs. Doors open, forward momentum kicks in, tears fall, frowns form, and then lift into smiles. Apologies offered and accepted. Promises kept, friendships formed, while love fills the vacuum of hate, all because I and so many others write them down.
Why do I write songs? Who the hell knows?
Why do I write songs? Who the hell knows?
But the answers so graciously given to me during one transformational weekend are the ones that will get me through tomorrow’s questions.
I would love to hear what you thought about this essay and if it brought any personal memories or stories to mind. Please feel free to leave a comment. I’ll answer all of them. I would love to strike up a conversation about this piece and your thoughts. Please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend. Thank you. - Mark
You’ve hit the nail on the head, Mark. The duality of writing. Amen. I’ve written many scraps of songs that get left to be forgotten. I’ve written many lines that make me grin ear to ear and start to think I’ve got the hang of it, right before a hundred more junk lines come down the pipe to remind me that I’m a writer, and no, it’s not that easy. A beautiful read, as always.
You describe beautifully what I think so many songwriters feel. Your descriptions in lines like "Once I caught the scent of that first song, others followed like dogs to a dumpster" paints such a vivid picture of things that are sometimes hard to put into words. Wonderful writing and photos!