I’m A Writer, Actually
There was a classic differentiation between a songwriter and a poet and a novel writer and a musician, in my head, for my entire life. Distinct crafts, when simply looking at the outcomes.
As I’ve grown, I’ve been consistently frustrated with the “artistic temperament;” that is, the musician’s temperament. That’s what I’ve been dealing with! Painters don’t give me as much BS as musicians do. Maybe that’s the whole Apollonian vs. Dionysian artist issue, because thespians (yuck! just kidding if you’re a thespian though) impart a special brand of crazy to me as well.
That crazy is necessary in those distinct markets, from what I’ve gathered. That’s why I lean towards the technical and production aspects. I’m there to reign in the chaos, bring consistency and methodology to the pieces which burn so bright and dive so deeply.
Nonetheless, the “temperament” can be trouble to deal with, and even more-so in relationships and friendships. It drove me crazy that my intense interest in music would draw in inconsistent individuals more often than not. But I really, really cared about music, and so would often tolerate chaotic friendships. I am aware as well this may be a product of youth— people tend to mellow out in time. But I can’t avoid my early twenties, I’m afraid.
That’s why I mention this distinction, in my head, between writers and musicians. The whole time, I thought my interest in music made me a musician, and really nothing else. My writing bit was just that— a hobby, and side-interest. A tangential support mechanism for the next album.
It wasn’t until I joined a few writer’s groups, and participated in higher level creative writing classes, that I realized something very key to my person. I really do not think I’m much of a musician, at least in a platonic sense. I’d walk into this classes and know exactly what I was doing. I’d been paying attention to the writing craft for years and years, captivated by narratives, characters, descriptions, metaphors. And then I’d apply it in every way I could think of to music, without really being conscious of it.
I’d become a writer— not just a songwriter, but a storyteller. And not in that BS marketing way, either, like you see on advertisements for country musicians. There were worlds and continuities in my head, a character I had built as a conduit in each song and album.
When I began, in my day-to-day activity, to clarify that my musicianship was more a writing tool rather than an identity, and that I was a writer above all else, I felt far more understood. I attracted (or at least, allowed myself to attract) not only musicians who fixated on writing, but standard authors and purveyors of prose alike. I felt much more satisfied and understood by these people. But it didn’t stop there.
As I have embraced my position as a storyteller, a painter with words and sound— I feel that I have allowed myself far more empathy than ever before when it comes to everyone around me.
Music, as it is now in America, is still quite tribal. Especially as you get deeper into genres and make your taste distinct and informed, the separations grow further and further. I believe this is a misinterpretation of what music is for the human soul. We accessorize it, use it as an identity and a tool of separating into communities in this lonely America. But writing— I feel writers understand that genre separates much less. Any good writer must care about dialogue, about narrative consistency, about literature. The classics are truly essential, because they shove their way through the inanity classification. I don’t know why this is, really, but it certainly feels this way.
I think perhaps as time has gone on, we have become far more impressionist about our music. Music began as tangential to storytelling. Folk songs were, by necessity, painfully simple, and acutely lacking in ear candy. Emotion was best conveyed through the words and story still. Now, we all have an orchestra within our computer. We can let our true thoughts and feelings take the backseat to the glowing intensity of audience interpretation.
Despite the degeneration of the classic story structure in song, I believe the story is still in there. All musicians who create are telling it, but many have no idea they are Dickens, Hemingway, Dostoevsky and Bronte, as well as Bowie, Reed, Bjork and Yorke. It has simply evolved with the times, made conversely more complex because of it’s interpretive nature. It’s a beautiful thing— a writer is a writer.
