back of church bulletin
magazine subscription flyers
All of these objects have served as song writing tablets for me at one time or another over the 5 or 6 years that I’ve been at this song-writing-music-making thing.
I seldom use an actual sheet of paper.
When inspiration comes you have to capture it the best you can with what you have, and I’m usually never prepared.
Thus, on napkins and bookmarks and business cards I write. Cram words so tiny. Ink bleeds all of the letters together. Usually the songs are not legible, but something about physically writing them cements them to the heart.
The good ones anyway.
And usually about 90% of these squabbles I tread to call songs are garbage.
That isn’t a jab at my talent or implication that I lack creativity. It just takes a good 20 or 30 crap chicken scratches before a semi-worth-while song is birthed.
Then several “ok” ones before a decent one come to pass.
Then, of course, an excellent song will only come when it feels like it.
You cannot manufacture a good song. I’ve tried. In fact often I go back and re read from my “crap” song pile and find something worth while.
Song writing boils down to the simplest thing: Keep the ink flowing. Don’t stop. Don’t over think. Just keep the words coming, vocabulary growing, writing everything, and writing nothing at all.
Be absolutely you.
Napkins absorbs the messy emotions that spill from the heart better.
I like it that way.
This photo was taken last fall in north Georgia. This kinda sums up how I feel right now. Transitioning, breaking a little. “Consider it pure joy…”
This is an excerpt from a song a friend and I are writing together.
It is untitled at this time, but the melody has a lot of momentum. I enjoyed writing and look forward to fine tuning it tomorrow.
Shadows move flood the streets
darkness misguides my feet
Lights flicker and die away
Sparkling city nights blinking
To the song the city sings
of hollow steps and heartbeats
echo through the city streets
Dark descending all around
I really must hurry now
Onwards to home I run
Till I hear a nasty thud
Knees scuffed palms red
I must be a child again
Fading now from lights
Carefully I count my strides
Oh yeah, Rivvy says “Stay fat and happy!”