We come seeking affirmation. When I browse Substack, I see popular posts à la “self-help for writers.” It may not be “Write a Hit Song in 5 Easy Steps!”—but subtler variations on that theme. Maybe you’ve read them too? Maybe you glean a tip that sparks an idea. Maybe you feel like a pawn in the subscription-accumulation game. Either way, the underlying dynamic is self-doubt. We crave stability in the ocean of creative work. Some of us write essays that sound a bit too confident, too good to be true. Then others of us gobble it up. I figure all writers waver hard between stubborn assurance and total despair. (And if you don’t know the Nick Hornby / Ben Folds song on the topic, definitely go take a listen. Meet back here in... 2 minutes?)
Once, meeting with my college professor, I said, “I want to be a writer.” She abruptly stopped the conversation, handing me a pen and pad of sticky notes. “I am a writer,” she said. “Write it down.” She crossed her arms. I laughed, and felt silly, and knew it wouldn’t change anything—but I wrote it down. I appreciate her lack of explication. She knew, too, that writing a few words on a sticky note wouldn’t change me. But, her near-comical sternness stuck in my brain, planting a seed of potential for real change—certainly more potential than any writing tip or gimmick. She was a great teacher: light on theory, heavy on just doing the work.
I began my musical life as a drummer. The sad part is, I don’t have a strong sense of rhythm. I easily grasp music on an intellectual, mathematical level. But playing a simple rhythm, with consistency and ease, I find nearly impossible. I started picking up other instruments: diversion perhaps from my lazy practice habits. Today, I’m glad I can play a handful of instruments at an OK level. But before I hit “record”, I have to rehearse parts over and over and over, before I land anywhere near the groove.
You know about quantization? The technical definition intrigues me: restricting the number of potential outcomes. When you record sounds digitally, especially on a synthesizer, the data is easy to manipulate. And when you quantize a track, it drags each note to the nearest 1/8 or 1/16—any increment you like—so that no matter how sloppy your timing, the track will come out sounding perfect.
The problem, of course, is perfection: neither realistic, nor particularly tasty, music-wise. But there I was, a drummer with mediocre rhythm, creating digitally perfect, lifelessly precise music. Sure, I learned some things, and made some music—but my chops didn’t improve. If I heard perfection coming back through the speakers, then why try measuring up? Stir it all together: classic recipe for imposter syndrome.
the sound of me posing as Musical Mad Genius, sometime around the turn of the century
Words shifted the balance. That’s the Pisces in me: can’t play a steady beat, but loves the murky, ambiguous rhythms of language. Writing was less a chore, more a puzzle or a game; and when I cracked the code, it felt right like nothing else. I hated practicing my instrument, but when I started writing songs I felt proud of, it motivated me. I needed my guitar and my voice to measure up to—or at least not detract from—the songs. So began the hard work: making up for years lost to quantized idealism and restricted outcomes.
“Shards of Nonsense” comes from a place, down near this deep insecurity I’m getting at. This stuff is hard to share, hard to write about—at least directly. The first draft was entirely different, more an unrequited love story: meandering verses, a long journey in search of an elusive, beloved, mystical figure (essentially “The End of May” part II). The story felt repetitive, unsatisfying. But I liked the melody, the way it begins in the center, then spins around that center like a spool of thread—or an insistent, obsessive thought. And the last stanza felt true: the supposedly heart-wrenching twist, where she says, you came so far just to find me, but fate has something else in mind. “This is how it has to be / This is how it’s meant to be.” Farewell.
Fate felt like a potent idea; I felt heat. I was wrestling with it just then, with the fear that I’d ruined my chances for happiness and creativity by sticking to safe, boring territory for so much of my life. But exploring fate—resistance, resignation, acceptance—in the context of romantic relationships came out contrived; nothing sang. I needed to grow past the songs I’d been writing.
Some of us make peace with the past through a kind of externalization. We easily recognize pain in others, though we don’t often see our own—so, we create some distance. I imagine myself as a child or a teenager, and if he were a stranger to me, I would feel intense compassion for everything he went through—the type of sympathy I don’t usually allow myself in the present moment. We are all so hard on ourselves... But I had this fragment of a song, where someone stares down the worst fate imaginable, and somehow accepts it, saying, “This is how it has to be.”
So. I imagined a character, and gave her my most difficult traits. If I struggled with something, she struggled with it tenfold. She’s nervous; she thinks too much; she feels everything so deeply. I wrote “Shards of Nonsense” about her, and it came out more personal than anything I would’ve written about myself. Then I kept thinking about her, writing songs, imagining different stages in her life. And I continued finding similarities between her and me, or between her and the people I cared about.
Listen and download on Bandcamp
When I set out to record these songs, I wanted to dip into that old well: those years I spent in my parent’s basement, making songs with digital, artificial precision. I wanted to hear that overthinking, overwrought, emotionally fragile sound; it fit the character. I wanted layers upon layers, complicated arrangements, drum loops; I wanted that unnaturally deep synth bass sound; but I wanted to infuse some warmth and understanding too—the kind that comes with growing up, growing into yourself.
Recording the vocals was a nightmare. Same for the electric guitar in the left channel. Take after take after take... Few other things in life bring me nose-to-nose with that old feeling of being a fraud.
On the topic of imposter syndrome—or any other daily struggle—I’m not here to get or give advice, really. I’m here to swap stories. I’m here for the company. I don’t think art, or life, ever gets easy; but mine got simpler when I admitted how hard it was, how hard it is. When I feel like a fraud, that means I’m straining, pushing myself, trying something new.
I figure everyone else feels like an imposter too, much of the time. I like asking this question: is the work important to you? If no, consider giving yourself permission to quit. If yes, then keep at it. Better yet, grab hold of a good, sustaining reason to do the work. Then you might despair, but you won’t give up.