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Have you ever felt completely stuck? Like you have all these ideas, but they stay in some kind of creative purgatory with no way out? You can’t act on them, and you don’t know why. Nothing is flowing. Everything feels stagnant.

When people talk about “writer’s block”, I’ve always assumed it meant they have no new ideas. But I think it’s worse than that. You still have ideas, but you’re doubting every single one.

You’re constantly questioning: “Is it good enough?” Our internal critic shuts us down before the idea has a chance to breath. 

I’ve personally felt like this for the last six months. The ideas are there, but I don’t know what to do with them. Well actually: I know exactly what to do with them. I’m just scared. I don’t even know if I know what I’m scared of. Scared of baring my soul again? Afraid people won’t like my new ideas? 

All this fear drives me insane. It happens to me every time I release an album. I think it’s partly because I’m still too close to the thing I just made, and I compare every new idea to what I’ve already done.

I start asking myself: “Is my best work behind me?” “Should I play it safe and just recreate what I’ve already done?” I talk myself in circles, and end up creating nothing at all. 

The most annoying part is: I know exactly what I need to do to get unstuck. I need to just start.

And so that’s what I’ve decided to do. Challenge myself to write a new piece every day, for thirty days. (Maybe more? We’ll see how it goes.) It doesn’t matter how short it is, or how good. I know it’s the only way to turn off the chatter in my brain, to get into my heart, and back into a creative flow.

Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash

On Saturday evening, May 11, I played my first show in over a year. It was an absolutely incredible experience. So many thanks to Gina at Mullica River Cottages for organizing the whole event, and Sean at S. W. Piano Tuning for renting me the beautiful Yamaha upright. It was a joy to play. The weather was perfect, the audience was a delight, and the catbirds seemed to be singing along. It was magical. Just like last time.

The last show I had was in Maine, on Jan 14, 2023. I wish they weren’t so far and few between. Though perhaps I only have myself to blame. There is a part of me that feels like I’m simply waiting for someone else to do the work of organizing them. I did come across a site the other week, though, called Peerspace which looks like it could push me in the right direction. Some of the venues include pianos. I’ve been thinking about doing a trial run in a city nearby. Maybe NYC, Brooklyn or D.C. There just seem to be a lot of logistics to consider. So much planning. Not only the space, but the piano, tuning, lighting, seating, ticketing. And without even seeing the space in person. But I suppose it’s always a risk. Creating is inherently risky. The Maine show was a risk, given how remote it was. It’s always worth it, though. Playing for people, that is. It always makes me so happy. I love connecting with people in that way.

Aside from shows, lately I’ve been thinking about what direction to go in since my last release, Home Is You. The period between releases always feels like a wandering. Fallowness. Like trying to find the direction I’m supposed to head in. Though it always feels like I end up going in the same direction. It just takes time to find the path on the other side. Or perhaps I was just resting.

With each album release I’ve been more comfortable with taking my time to write more music. The process feels different each time. Though similar in one particular way. It always starts with a lot of small ideas. A satisfying, two-line melody. An interesting four bar chord progression. A catchy rhythm.

I’m also very timid to start again after releasing an album. Is it fear of failure? Is it lack of inspiration? Or just the natural rhythm of things? Perhaps all three. Also, I want to challenge myself to grow as a composer with each release. As time goes on I want my pieces to… age, perhaps? Mature? I don’t know.