On composing

Last year, I gave myself a goal to release a solo acoustic guitar album within the year.

I fell short of a few days, but I did manage to release it earlier this week, using the winter break to record the last few songs, master the album, and publish it.

I'm not a professional musician by any stretch of the imagination.

But playing guitar is the one creative thing I've managed to stick to for more than 27 years.

I wanted to leave something behind.

That and justify to my wife the unconscionable amount of money I had spent on guitars lately.

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I realize that many of you don't play instruments, and I've wondered if I could find a way to make composing relatable nonetheless.

This is my attempt.

To me, composing music feels similar to writing this newsletter.

You start with an idea, but you never really know where it'll take you.

I rarely hear melodies in my head. Even when I do, I'm not really good at bringing them to life on the guitar.

My composing process is more akin to wandering around and waiting for melodies to show themselves.

I pick a guitar within reach and begin strumming. It's a bit like opening the door of my house and going outside for a walk.

The first few minutes are like an after-dinner stroll in a nearby park.

I play familiar notes. Familiar scales and chords. Things I've played a thousand times.

It feels safe, but nothing very exciting usually happens in the vicinity of my comfort zone.

More often than not, I turn back home after a few rounds of mindless, aimless walk.

But at times, I feel a bit adventurous and take a different turn, leading me to an unknown, unlit street.

Safety levels drop immediately, and with them, a sense of direction. I don't know where I'm going.

I hear the echoes of my own footsteps and wonder if they're telling me where to go next.

When luck is strolling aside me, the notes I played suddenly become a statement. A melody.

Melodies are the building blocks of songs. They make every song unique and recognizable.

Good melodies, like good sentences, propel us forward. They have a sense of inexorability. They lure us into wanting to hear more. Each note serves a purpose.

When I stumble upon one, I get excited. There's something in the air.

Do I write it on a piece of paper?

No.

Mainly for two reasons. One is that I'm very bad at it, and the time it would take me to write it down, I would have lost its momentum.

Another reason is natural selection. If I need to write it to remember it, maybe it's not that inexorable. Instead, I prefer playing it over and over until it becomes an idiom, a part of my vocabulary.

Sometimes, the melody is so strong that it calls for more melodies.

Again, I'm not really hearing them in my head. More like an itch in my fingers. A bit like Spiderman's tingle. OK. Maybe not.

On a lucky day, I may come back home with several melodies that seem to complement each others.

But a bunch of melodies is not a song.

A song tells a story. It needs structure.

A hook. Some level of familiarity but with elements of surprise. Development. Tension and release.

A conclusion.

It takes you somewhere and, hopefully, brings you back home renewed.

A good chapter in a novel keeps you reading. A good song keeps you listening.

Professional songwriters know how to do all that with compositional techniques.

In my case, I piece melodies together like Lego blocks and repeat until they resemble a verse or chorus.

It's a little bit like solving a puzzle without knowing how it's supposed to look once completed.

More often than not, I have a killer verse or chorus that just doesn't want to become a song. It can be frustrating, but I've learned to let go.

When stars align, the puzzle gets solved, and a song reveals itself. It's exhilarating. A bit like an out-of-body experience (not that I know how that actually feels like). A song has been born. I'm just a bystander.

And then, I need to make the most important decision. The hardest decision.

Is it done?

Does it need more of anything? Or less?

Some of my songs are short. Under 2 minutes.

I don't try to make them longer. Because I feel that they don't have more to say.

And when all that is done, I practice the song. Many times. Until I can play well enough to attempt recording it. Depending on the song, that can take a while. Sometimes, however hard I practice, the song is just too challenging to play. I put it in a drawer with the other songs that have defeated me.

Doesn't sound very productive, does it?

But as long as I enjoy the process, I don't mind. I enjoy going for a walk. Even if I come back home empty-handed.

Fish is never guaranteed. But if you don't put the line in the water, you won't catch a fish.

Like with any creative endeavor, it all starts with showing up. Day after day.