blank paper
Despite one recent 'success' - a song Mitch Benn deemed good enough to play on his podcast, or perhaps because of this, I have been experiencing a lot of doubt and even less self-confidence than usual regarding my musical/songwriting abilities. I feel like I have it in me so infrequently that maybe it's just not what I'm supposed to be doing.
When it's going well I enjoy writing. I love the buzz I get when I have a song in my head that somehow magically appears on paper. It's fun thinking up lines to make people laugh. But in these blank paper days I feel so useless. Spurts of inspiration have produced around 4-5 halves of songs recently. I get stuck and frustrated so I let them simmer, hoping it'll come back to me with fresh eyes.
I've tried forcing it, I've tried not thinking about it, I've even tried writing streams of conciousness to maybe spark something but at most I get disjointed ideas with no hope of cohesion.
My muse is a vindictive bitch, which as someone pointed out to me; is a song idea in itself. But she won't let me write. And so I blog. And I whine. And I procrastinate. And I allow it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as usual.
Back to the Any Crappy Old Job search tomorrow. Perhaps mundanity and aggravating my contempt for The General Public will provide the key.
When it's going well I enjoy writing. I love the buzz I get when I have a song in my head that somehow magically appears on paper. It's fun thinking up lines to make people laugh. But in these blank paper days I feel so useless. Spurts of inspiration have produced around 4-5 halves of songs recently. I get stuck and frustrated so I let them simmer, hoping it'll come back to me with fresh eyes.
I've tried forcing it, I've tried not thinking about it, I've even tried writing streams of conciousness to maybe spark something but at most I get disjointed ideas with no hope of cohesion.
My muse is a vindictive bitch, which as someone pointed out to me; is a song idea in itself. But she won't let me write. And so I blog. And I whine. And I procrastinate. And I allow it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as usual.
Back to the Any Crappy Old Job search tomorrow. Perhaps mundanity and aggravating my contempt for The General Public will provide the key.