Songwriting as Fairytale

I had a thought today as I continue reading Timothy Morton’s Dark Ecology.

He mentioned at one point getting lost in the dark forest and finding our way again, and I wondered how that pattern might be reflected in the common pop song structure.

Songs are built on this pattern of repetition and deviation — the deviation makes the repetition all the more sweet when it returns. I thought about how verses could be seen as straying off the forest path into a darker realm, and then the chorus comes in when we find the path again — let’s celebrate! We found the path!

Then I thought about the middle 8 — what some people also call “the bridge.” This is the part where we come across an entirely new melody and total deviation from all we’ve heard before. It’s at this point we’ve strayed so far off the woodland path that we’ve actually put ourselves in danger. We fight our way out (sometimes bridges in pop music end with a cry-out high note, think of Taylor Swift’s ‘Blank Space’) and the return to the chorus is hugely sweeter after that ordeal.

Another interesting thing is that the coda of pop songs is sometimes the combination of the chorus and the middle 8. Which gives the impression that the darkest part of our journey has also become an intrinsic part of it— in fact, it adds to the chorus: it imbues greater meaning and complexity, and adds to the bittersweet taste of the final sing-a-long. It’s like we’ve taken what we’ve learnt in the dark forest and applied it to our path.

Calling this place a “bridge” also makes me think of crossing over. Like a symbolic act of self-sacrifice in the hero’s journey which leaves them utterly transformed, but stronger than ever. Think about when Harry Potter decided to let himself be killed by Lord Voldemort. He crossed over to death, and then came back renewed to sing his final chorus, full of awareness about what lies on the other side of this existence.

Here’s a passage from Dark Ecology which reinforces this idea of how darkness and joy live inside each other, and we need that in order to create a world where the future is sustainable:

"within the melancholia is an unconditional sadness. And within the sadness is beauty. And within the beauty is longing. And within the longing is a plasma field of joy."

I think I could argue that this is a loop — lingering deep within joy itself is also sadness, which within lies joy, which within lies sadness, ad infinitum.

3 Things I Learnt From Writing 50 Songs In 50 Days

I’m halfway through my 100 Tiny Songs project. I like calling it a project rather than a challenge because ‘project’ feels like I’m more involved in it. I mean, I’m the one who came up with this idea and so far I think I’m the only person who’s done a project like this with these parameters (maybe I should google that though).

Number One: INSPIRATION FINDS YOU WORKING INSPIRATION FINDS YOU WORKING

Y’all hate to hear it — I know I did. Before this project I didn’t really write songs if I hadn’t something floating in my head beforehand. And I would sometimes go a month without writing a new song because I wasn’t “ready” for it yet. I literally had this belief right up until I started this Tiny Songs project!! If I had written a song only on the days I felt inspired before sitting down to write, I think I’d genuinely have about 5. Out of the 50 I’ve written so far. Inspiration really does find you when you go out looking for it.

Number Two: GROWTH IS A SPIRAL

You follow the trajectory of a spiral, it loops back on itself constantly whilst always progressing outward at the same time. That’s what this project is like. I’d go through phases of writing a few bad songs and then get back to some I liked, and then go back to writing bad ones and then go to writing good ones again… that feels cyclical. But what is happening all the while, is that I’m growing as a writer and an artist. Outward growth! Even if it feels like a closed loop.

Number Three: SOCIAL MEDIA IS A SKETCHBOOK

Instagram is so transient, as is Twitter, heck — even Youtube, I could argue. We put something up there and within a day or two, it’s on to the next thing. So why would we use social media to only showcase the best stuff we have? Social media is the funnel to that better content which can happily live somewhere else (maybe on Bandcamp, Spotify, Patreon, a website). But just like how this blog is a work in progress, where ideas get planted and grow at different rates, social media is the same. It’s just a garden of stuff where things are growing at different rates. It’s a workspace. It’s a rough draft area. It’s a sketchbook! And we all love looking inside people’s sketchbooks. When the time comes, we can collect what we’ve shared and thought about via social media channels, and can refine those ideas into something big, beautiful and more permanent.

So those are my thoughts so far, after songwriting for 50 days. It’ll be interesting to see if any new insights come out over the next 50. Until then, I’ll be here writing about time-wasting and other stuff.

Me vs Myself

I felt like I was heading for a burnout, which was strange, because I’d only been seriously working on this project for a couple of weeks. But here’s the thing:

Interviewing people about the toughest times in their lives is, unsurprisingly, exhausting.

I totally underestimated that. Going in to these initial 5 interviews, I thought I was experiencing tiredness from the online nature of the calls — that “Zoom fatigue” we’ve all suffered through the pandemic. And as I started to schedule further conversations — I had about 10 on my list in total — I felt a bit of dread about how tired I’d be at the end of it. But I wasn’t thinking in emotional terms.

It came to a head on Monday morning when I interviewed a very close friend and we ended up talking about their suicide attempt, which happened many years ago. At one point when I was listening I was just clutching my chest, as if to bottle up the tidal waves of emotion that were trying to pour out. My friend and I talked for two hours. By the time I hung up the phone, I felt shell-shocked.

It was then, five interviews in, that I realised I had to cancel the other five. I’d set myself up a ridiculous schedule of two interviews a day max, with the view to talk to each person for up to two hours… it didn’t sound like a large amount as I wrote it all down in my planner, but I realised that it was. I had no boundaries, either. I would be listening, open and searching, sometimes sharing parts of myself, holding space for people as they talk about their deepest fears and perspectives. And I wasn’t taking much time in between these conversations to process, unwind, or take care of myself. I was all “go, go, go!”

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m on furlough and I thought I should use this time by working really hard and fast on the research process of the project, so I wouldn’t have to apply for a research project grant. I wanted to impress people with how much I was getting done. I wanted to smash this stage of the process. I thought 10 interviews was barely enough. More was more, I didn’t want to be left behind. So here I was, anxious about wasting time on a project that was all about reconciling emotions on wasting time.

Kinda dumb, huh?

This project is absolutely about myself and trying to make something for myself, as well as everyone else who experiences anxiety around time. I didn’t think it would get under my skin so quickly.

So now, my plan for the next few weeks is this:

• create a reading list

• read!

• write out interview notes

• add to my research book with lots more notes and ideas as I continue reading and thinking

• write this blog a few times a week

From what I’ve learned, sometimes things move slowly and imperceptibly. So that’s what I’m going to do. Keep doing stuff but letting that underground river (I haven’t written about the underground river yet! I will do soon) run on, to its unseen destination.

Zoom Out

I’m not in my house right now — I’m staying with my parents up in Scotland as the winter wave of this pandemic hits London hard. For the most part, being away from London has been fine. I take things day by day, and that’s helped. Trying not to look at the big picture, you know?

But this morning I got a text from one of my flatmates saying she’s got a negative test result and is returning to the house after being away in Italy. Another flatmate is also getting a test and returning.

It’s been easier to not think about London, to think about my house, my flatmates, the distance between me and my regular life. My boyfriend. But those texts made me zoom out from my small, day-to-day focus and see the bigger picture: a pandemic which is disrupting our lives so hugely.

I’ve started to do interviews with people and there’s these perspectives on lost time which are totally different, yet work together. There’s the microscopic, stir-my-tea, look out the window perspective, and then there’s the bigger picture.

During the pandemic, when I look at the bigger picture, I get sad.

I like to think of it as a boat metaphor. I’m in the cabin, passing the time as I wait to arrive at my destination (life post-pandemic). Something prompts me to draw myself away from my writing/painting/card games and I go up to the top deck to take a look out at the sea. From the deck I watch these huge waves rise and fall, a storm is brewing in the distance and there’s no land in sight. I go back to my cabin but I can’t shake the feeling of unease.

The sea is dark and the way is unknown.

That’s why it’s easier to deal with the smaller things — what’s inside my cabin, what I have in front of me.

Is there a way to love the bigger picture even if we don’t know what it means? Is there a way to love the black, unfurling sea? Do you know what I’m saying?

The bigger picture is usual put together and contextualised after the event has passed. After the pandemic, I’ll be able to make meaning out of it. But for now, it’s the small stuff.

(…but is there a way to love the big, unknown picture?)