I write a lot of half-songs. I'm really good at writing a verse and a chorus, and then stalling out on the rest. My theory on why this happens is that in order to write good songs, I have to write from the subconscious mind. But once a song is underway, it gets pretty darn tough to ignore the fact that you're writing a song. Then the logical brain swoops around with its ideas, which are almost always formulaic and boring. Then I get disgusted with the whole process, throw up my hands, and file the half-song away, never to be seen again.

Well, almost never. Every once in a while, I go sifting through the compost heap, and pull out a pile of old song fragments to see what's there. And sometimes, once these fragments get shuffled around in my brain again, something sparks.

I wrote the refrain of this song years ago. I really have no idea when. I think it was attached to some other verses that are now on the cutting room floor. Then one day not too long ago, walking to the library from work, the line came to me "The sidewalks are poems, set in new time." I kept walking, kept writing, and when the time came for a refrain, the old fragment occurred and slipped right into place.

This song feels swimmy and spacey to me, so I really went for it on the underwater theme. I hope you enjoy it. And I hope that if you ever write songs yourself (or create anything, really) that you take the time once in a while to go digging through the compost heap. Sometimes it's worth it. 

Tidal Pool
The sidewalks are poems, set in new time
Punctuation and pavement, the cracks and the lines
The evenings are songs, set to new words
But the tune of your tiring, it always returns

You found me stuck in a windowsill
You painted your trails of golden light
Round anyone who might fit the bill
But always you whispering in the night.

Don't leave me alone: you are the kindest lover I've known

The boys in the hall are hyacinth blue
The glasses are clinking in the wallpapered room
The pain is a plague, and the whole town is full
Of infected subjected to the curse and the cure

There I lay drunk in a tidal pool
Your coral grew slowly around me
All of the others slipped out of view
With only your beauty surrounding

Don't leave me alone: you are the kindest lover I've known
I don't want to be free: if you're what's gonna kill me then kill me

If I travelled time, could you just stand still?
You could bask in my burnout in your atmosphere
The memories are stars transformed into stones
They weigh down my pockets and turn me to loam

That's it for now. But there'll be another new song next week. Sign up below and I'll send it straight to your inbox. Thanks for listening!

This project is a strange little beast. It's hard to predict what each week will bring and if it will even feel resonant by the time it goes public. The tenor of the whole world feels like it shifts dramatically every day. Maybe I'm just paying closer attention than I used to. It's hard to know which songs matter in times like these, but I have a feeling they all do. 

Here are some more thoughts on Art in the Time of Monsters from the Reverand Osagyefo Sekou.

Week four. I wrote this song a while back but it hasn't quite made it into my regular rotation. When I started writing the lyrics, the song had a very different feel. The chords were minor, the tempo slow. It's a breakup song, after all, shouldn't it be sad? But then I realized I had no sadness, no bitterness left over for the memory it described. So I swapped in a fast, tuneful accompaniment and instantly liked the song much better. Once at a show I introduced it as a "happy song about horrible things". 

Ultimately, it's really just a happy song. And that's how I feel, not just about the song, but about the memory as well. I'm happy it happened, happy it's over, with no malice in the memory. Or at least very, very little ?

The video is of some seashell wind chimes that someone hung off a tree in the State Park lands near my house.

Sweet and Light
Metal chairs and tables set to burning in the sun
while we sat and flicked the ashes like we were the only ones
We took our coffee sweet and light just like the Spanish do
Oh I take it black these days but when I don't I toast to you

Just two sweet and tragic lovers
doomed for destruction at the start
with your veils and your cages
and my optimistic heart

I won't deny I played a part and likely played the worst
But if I broke your heart I hope you know you broke mine first
Train went off-track somewhere between forgive and forget
and now you show up in my dreams more than I care to admit.

Sometimes I wish you well
Sometimes I hope it's hell for you out there

Just two sweet and tragic lovers
doomed for destruction at the start
with my daggers and my curtains
and your unsuspecting heart

The loneliest I've ever been was laying by your side
I whispered to the city lights they told me I'd survive 
And they were right, so much more than right

Your memory's a living room you rearrange each night
where soured love reduces to a pinprick in your life
My memory's a microscope I gladly pay the price:
it doesn't hurt me to be honest, doesn't cost me to be nice.

Sometimes, I wish you well
Sometimes, I hope it's hell for you out there.

You can get the weekly song sent straight to your inbox! Just give me your email and I'll make it happen.

The response to last week's In the Light was completely overwhelming. Thank you so much for listening and sharing it with your friends, and thank you to all the new folks listening and watching this little project.

Much like last week, I had something different planned for this week's song. Once again, my gut intervened at the last minute, and I recorded something else.

This song, Story of the Year, was the first song I wrote after the election. Like many of you, I felt dazed and shocked, and completely unable to tap back into life-as-usual. This had its upsides. I became more politically active overnight. While I was glad for the change, I soon felt like I had lost a critical balance in my life. The events in the larger world made everything else seem ridiculously small, including the good things. 

I wrote this song to myself, as a reminder that all of the good, small things in the world still matter. The video is of Ithaca Falls, one of the many beautiful waterfalls in the city I am lucky to call home.

Beauty is fuel, and we need it now more than ever.

Lyrics
Another dream down the drain
And it's the story of the year
Now November is freezing the rain
Just an insult to injury

But the wind put a newfound spring in my step
And the snow made a beautiful cling in your hair
And we made it inside, both freezing and wet
And sparkling

Break the spell
Break the fall
Remind me that anything done well
Is a gift for us all
It's a gift for us all

All our love letters fell out of our pockets
And the salutations bled out in the rain
They floated down gutter rivers to be fished out by hungry hands

There is so much we need
No shortage of mouths and hearts to feed
So spare some of your beauty to be gleaned from the fields

Tuck the children in tight
Make your grandmother's grasshopper pie
And sing with your friends through the brittle-boned nights
of December

Break the spell
Break the fall
Remind me that anything done well
Is a gift for us all
It's a gift for us all
​
Somehow we mend
We all have our own tiny acre to tend
Out here with dirt on our hands
I can almost believe
Break the spell...

Thank you for listening. If you enjoy this project, tell someone about it! This music is meant to be shared widely. And if you like, signup below and I'll send you each week's new song straight to your inbox. ​

One year ago today, I wrote about why I wasn't submitting to the NPR Tiny Desk Contest. I was actually afraid to publish the post. I feared my opinion would be unpopular, and that there would be backlash.

The post ended up being surprisingly popular, quickly becoming the highest traffic moment I've ever had, both on social media and on my website. 

I guess my disillusionment resonated with more people than I thought.

Everything I wrote then still holds true for me, and I'm not here to regurgitate. Here's the original post, if you're interested.

Still, the earth has traveled around the sun once more, and once more Bob Boilen and company are inviting all ye hardworking musicians of the trenches to setup your cameras, sit behind a desk, and shoot for your moment of stardom.

And I've realized I still have some unsaid thoughts on the matter.

Mostly, I've been reflecting on the music contests (NPR and otherwise) I've submitted to over the years. I've thrown my hat in my fair share of contests. Now that I've made a very public stance against them, I sometimes wonder: were all the contests I ever entered bad? Was entering always a waste of time?

Upon reflection, I realized that the answer contains a paradox.

Some undeniably good things came out of the contests I entered. The first time I ever made recordings of my music was so I could enter a contest. The same goes for press shots and videos. Over the years, contests forced me to hustle out improvements to my website, campaign on social media, and build my mailing list with greater fever than usual. I can honestly say that entering these contests moved me forward, even though I didn't win them.

So why stop entering them, if they've been useful in the past? This is the shortest answer I can come up with:

Contests moved me forward in the past because they forced me to take action that any serious musician should already be taking.

​Contests didn't help me because I won them— they helped me because they gave me a swift kick in the pants to DO something. Something that I could have, should have been doing all along. Something that would move my music forward whether or not I won a prize or a tour or a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity. This is where the paradox of contests begins:

If a contest is causing you to take action you wouldn't otherwise take, you're probably not what they're looking for.

If you need a contest to put out new content to your listeners, or finally create an email list, or write a new song, then it's probably fair to say that you aren't taking consistent, determined action on your music. If you're not taking consistent, determined action, then it's also fair to say that you're not really taking your music seriously. And if you're not taking your music seriously, why would a panel of judges?

Note: I say the above with no judgement. I have been in this position more often than not. Learning to take my own music-making seriously is an ongoing process, and I fall short on a regular basis.

Now for the other part of the paradox. As you may know, I have quite publicly announced my intention to write, record, and release a new song and video every week this year. Given this commitment, it would be all too easy for me to make one of these weekly videos do double duty as an NPR Tiny Desk Contest Submission. Just sit behind a desk and hit record, right? I'm going to make the video either way, right?

But here's the thing I've learned: once you start taking that consistent, determined action that contests used to inspire, two interesting things begin to happen.

1. First, you see contests for what they are. You aren't as easily hoodwinked into believing the marketing hype that you, humble unknown musician, have a shot at infinite glory.
2. Second, all the things you wanted out of the contest in the first place (better exposure, more listeners, more engagement, more content, etc) start to come true for you. Why? Because you are taking the action. And you realize you never needed the contest after all.

That's the second half of the paradox:

If you're already taking consistent, determined action to grow the reach of your music, the contest will lose its appeal.

A few final thoughts on the reason these contests exist in the first place: 

There's nothing wrong with the people at NPR or the Tiny Desk Contest, or with marketing and positioning for that matter. Still, it's important to know that who they target with their marketing and who they're looking to pick as a winner are two very different subjects.

The Tiny Desk Contest marketing is geared toward unknown bands and artists seeking their big break. Bands so under the radar that the definition could include every human with a laptop and a ukulele. Boiled down to two words: Undiscovered Talent.

Is that really who they're looking for? Yes and no. Yes, the attention of the unwashed-aspiring-musician-masses is what the Tiny Desk Contest ultimately seeks. No, undiscovered talent isn't the primary factor in the winner they choose. How could it be? Undiscovered Talent is the largest possible common denominator: it will never be in true demand on its own.

So what are they looking for in their winners? Boiled down to two words: Exceptional Stories. Look at their past winners for the proof. Does your band have a truly exceptional story? Do you personally? Probably not. I sure don't. That doesn't make us bad musicians, it just means we probably aren't gonna win this one, no matter what desk we play behind.

But of course, the people at NPR really want you to believe you will win. That's why undiscovered talent is their catchphrase. And at the heart of it, that's the whole point of the contest.

It's not about lifting some unknown singer out of the masses and helping them achieve instant fame and fortune. It's about something much more practical.

Audience growth.

​They want you, your sweaty bass player, and your Facebook friends to know that NPR Tiny Desk Concerts are a thing. They want you to tune in and care. Ultimately, they probably want you to pledge so you can get a tote bag. They want to remain a tastemaker in the world of American musical elitism, and they need listeners to do that. Appealing to the desires of aspiring musicians is the best way for them to secure a younger listening audience. Your ears are the ears they're after.

That's fine. Listen to the concerts (as I do). Love NPR. Pledge. Get that tote bag. And then get back to that consistent, determined action that is its own reward.

Fellow musicians, let's play the long game. 

Speaking of the long game, did I mention I'm releasing a new song and video this week? And next week? And every week for the rest of the year? If you want these creations delivered straight to your inbox, sign up below:

I had something completely different planned. By "planned" I don't just mean I had another idea for a song-- there was a whole recording, video, blog post, and email ready to go for a different song this week. And I scrapped it. I'm writing this in the late evening of January 21st into the early morning of the 22nd, after an inspiring and exhausting day at the Women's March on Washington.

I love this city. My childhood home (where I'm currently reposed) is less than a mile from the Beltway. The Parisian layout, the alabaster buildings offset by large swaths of green spaces, the culture and history at its epicenter: DC will always be my favorite.

But DC has a newfound soft spot in my heart after today's event, and I'm pulling an all-nighter if I have to in order to get this song and video to you ASAP.

​I tried to capture what it felt like to be there in the video. Special thanks to Lisa Archer and Molly Bargar for capturing some things I didn't, and to Kate Shanks for sending a clip of my hometown sister march in Ithaca, NY.

The words of the refrain come directly from an old Methodist standard-- a song I've sung so many times over so many years it is practically knitted to my blood. If you marched, in DC or another town, in body or in spirit, thank you. Thank you for being with us.

Lyrics:
I believe, I believe, I believe in who you are.
I believe, I believe, I believe in who you are.
So many years you sat on the sidelines
Thinking your silence was polite
And maybe it was, maybe it wasn't
Never mind it wasn't right
But we're all off the benches now, so hold tight.

And we are marching in the light of God

I believe, I believe, I believe in who we are.
I believe, I believe, I believe in who we are. 
Here we stand, with all our difference
Come to heal a common harm
Long lines in deep freeze, bus rides and belfries:
We are sounding the alarm
Shoulder to shoulder now, and arm in arm.

And we are marching in the light of God

I believe, I believe, I believe in who we are.
I believe, I believe, I believe in who we are.
Do you hear, the feet before us?
They are thundering through the square
With every voice a sign of victory
And every step a prayer
And the spirit is moving strong in the morning air.

And we are marching in the light of God

​I believe, I believe, I believe in who you are.

Thank you for listening. If you enjoy this project, tell someone about it! This music is meant to be shared widely. And if you like, signup below and I'll send you each week's new song straight to your inbox. 

Since I announced this project, I have often wondered if it was a horrible mistake. What was I thinking? Why did I tell THE INTERNET my plan? How will I be able to slink away quietly now that everyone knows what I've committed to do? Committing in public is a really effective way to make sure it gets done. It also hurts. 

But of course, there are bright sides. I've received overwhelming positive feedback and support for this little idea, which has bolstered me against my own insecurities. And, even though I felt grumbly and stressed all week, I actually wrote two new songs. One of them I even like. I doubt that would have happened if not for this painful public commitment. 

So here's the first: Lions. It's a few months old, but I've only played it in public once. I wrote it in a sort of fury, frustrated at myself for writing songs so infrequently. It can't be that hard, I griped, and sat down on the couch and wrote it in a sitting. It wasn't that hard.

It's coupled with a blurry video of my drive home in the sunset. I shot this video the day I decided to commit to this project. I was sky-high on the idea, and the world was teeming with beauty to be captured.

Lyrics:
Just grasping at straws and still the right threads come along
and wind themselves around the heart of it
I know now I've been wrong
Know there was a river, running all along

Oh the movie's over all the colors fade to black
the final scene a long pan of the lovers walking, 
hands are clasped
The crew is in the camera van
Yeah I'm lying in the back.

Go home and put the kettle on
Leave the lions lying on the lawn
When the pain whispers to the time
I know your ways, you know mine.

Go home and put the kettle on
Leave the lions lying on the lawn
Until the pain whispers to the time
You go your way, I'll go mine

I know there is a river, running all along.

Thanks for listening. I hope that on the other side of this project, I look back and say, It wasn't that hard.

You can have these creations delivered straight to your inbox each week if you prefer. Just give me your email and it's done ?

I started learning to play the guitar at the worst possible moment.

Let me explain. I majored in Music Education in college. One of the degree requirements was that we learn each of the band instruments (trombone, flute, bassoon, you name it). The final exam was to sit before the teacher and play scales and a solo piece— something at an advanced middle school to intermediate high school level. We Music Ed majors clipped along, taking an instrument or two per semester, until the end of our Junior year. Then came something called Proficiencies. We were required to retake and pass the final exams on all of the instruments within a two week period, proving to the faculty that we hadn't completely forgotten everything we learned over the past three years.

Proficiency weeks were mayhem. Picture frazzled undergrads hunkering down in tiny practice rooms, struggling to carry a clarinet, tuba, and their bagged lunch through the narrow hallways. The practice room floor of the music building was filled with the sound of out-of-tune trumpets, shrill violins, and honking saxophones. Guess what instrument wasn't a requirement to learn? Guitar. And guess what instrument I practiced more than any other during those insane weeks? Yep. I just couldn't help myself. I had to keep playing that guitar.

Sometimes we feel compelled to do things that make little sense. With any luck, our intuition is onto something, and it pays of in the end. I passed all my proficiencies (some with significantly less than flying colors). More importantly, learning guitar completely changed my life. 

So here I am again, with another far-flung idea that I have been unable to shake. I've been intrigued by the concept for a long time (inspired by Max Garcia Conover, who deserves credit for the idea and also deserves your ears and support). It doesn't make much sense and it might not be the right time and it scares me quite a bit. I guess that's why I'm doing it.

I'm committing to release a new song and video every week for the rest of the year. The videos will be simple— and while we're at it, maybe the songs will be too. I've got a lot of assumptions about what it takes to write good songs that I'm testing, and I'll be frank: if this project succeeds, the assumptions will be proved wrong. I guess I'm going to lose something either way. I'd rather lose the false assumptions.

Everyone will be able to listen to and watch these creations for free. More than anything, I want to create something that adds beauty, empathy, and authenticity to the lives of those who listen and watch. I can't think of anything more worthwhile. That's the idea in a nutshell.

I really don't know what's going to happen here. I may crash and burn in public. I may break into a new creative rhythm. We'll all find out together. I'll pull some forgotten songs out of the cedar chest if I need to, but all of these songs will be previously unreleased and relatively unheard. New. That's always been my bias, anyway. The best place to hear and see this project will be right here on this blog.

If you want me to shoot you an email each time a song is released, just let me know below.

Thanks for listening, and for taking an interest in this wild idea. In some ways this feels like the worst possible moment to start a project like this. Hopefully that doesn't matter. 

​- Bev

In the last month or so, the following things have happened: 

• I played my first show with CDs in hand, which also happened to be opening for one of my musical heroes, Chris Pureka. 
• After a lifetime of struggling even to buy stamps, I finally learned how to navigate the postal service as I made daily trips to the Post Office to mail out Pre-Orders (thank you!)
• Brooks and I played a CD Release show  at Casita Del Polaris to an audience that was sweetly silent and definitely above the fire code. 
• My first record, All These Dotted Lines dropped officially on iTunes, Bandcamp, CD Baby, Amazon, Spotify, and probably a bunch of other places I don't even know about. 

The release process has brought about a bunch of emotions for me, both expected and unexpected. The journey a song undertakes from birth to recording is strange. So is the long and winding process of making a record. Both of these processes start off so small and personal, but end up hanging on the outside for all to see. It's an exciting and scary undertaking. Standing on the other side, I feel a mixture of pride, apprehension, and itchiness to start the process over with a new crop of songs. But most of all, I feel a weighty sense of gratitude to you for listening, for showing up, and for supporting this work. It has been amazing to reconnect with distant friends over this music, and the messages of encouragement and kindness I've received have been staggering. It's truly beautiful to learn that these songs that started off so small and personal have come to mean something to someone else. 

Thank you so much for listening. 

It all happened so fast. Brooks Miner and I had been rehearsing since February. In April, we made our first appearance as a duo at the Cosmic Joke Collective show, where we played four songs. At the end of May, we traveled to Brooklyn to open a show for Anna Coogan and Eszter Balint. That same weekend we played a Sunday set at the Ithaca Festival. These were our first real gigs as a duo-- two great shows back to back. It was hard not to feel a sense of momentum that had been missing in my solo endeavors. After the Ithaca Festival show, Anna came over to where we were packing up our cases and said something to the effect of "Let's pack up the stuff and take it home, and then we're going to go have a drink and talk about how you're going to make this record happen."

This wasn't the first time Anna Coogan bossed me into something for my own good. Anna was the one who originally suggested (gently, but also again and again) that I should start playing music with Brooks. Interested as I was in adding another player to the mix, I wasn't sure it should be first on my to-do list. Shouldn't I be focusing on making a record instead? But it turns out Anna knew a few things I didn't. She knew that playing live with other musicians was a natural precursor to recording. This kind of informal collaboration forces some of the necessary steps that are so easy not to take when you are out there on your own. These steps include:

• Making a regular commitment to a practice time and location. In the dark weeks of February when Brooks and I started playing, I remember feeling intensely grateful that I had an appointment to play music with someone else, because I may not have otherwise made space for it in my life. 
• Charting out songs. I never had charts for my songs before working with Brooks. For some of them, I didn't even have a full written copy of the lyrics. Articulating the form and chords of my songs taught me so much about my own writing style. I learned all these idiosyncrasies I didn't even know I was doing: random bars of different meters and oddball chords thrown in otherwise simple songs. It also added a sense of concreteness to my songs, as though they existed in some way that other musicians would be able to understand and replicate. And obviously, this is work that must be done before you can go into the studio with other musicians.
• Creating new songs and reviving old ones. It's really not that fun to show up week after week and play the same handful of songs. At least not for me. Rehearsing with Brooks applied just enough pressure on me to dig through my song bag and chart out new things. This came in handy when we needed to come up with a list of potential songs for the record.
• Getting gigs on the books. It's also more fun to rehearse when there's a gig on the horizon, so practicing with Brooks made me more proactive about reaching out to venues and booking shows. As it turns out, making a record is basically managing a complex project that involves a bunch of people, many of them working remotely. Proactive communication skills are absolutely necessary. Plus playing more shows tightens everything up and adds the magic of momentum.
• Feeling less precious about the material. This was probably the most important aspect for me. Inviting someone else to be a part of the performance meant that they would really get to know my songs. They might even (gasp) form opinions about them. This seems obvious, but when you're toiling in obscurity with no recorded music to your name, you can naturally avoid a lot of the fear and risk that comes from putting yourself out there in a lasting way. As a solo performer, I at least had the illusion that I was in charge of the experience. Adding Brooks to the equation gave me a taste of what it feels like to put a record out into the world-- I had to let go of any pretense that I was in control of the experience others had with my music. Plus, having another person involved in the performance of my songs helped me to see them in more objective, less sentimental ways. When you go to record, it doesn't pay to be precious with your songs. 
• Playing with Brooks is awesome. Brooks is a great musician: sensitive, adaptable, and disciplined. His dedication to this project has been staggering. He basically tracked the whole record twice (once on piano/electric piano, and once on organ), plus he sat in on countless listening sessions during the mixing phase and gave incredibly thoughtful feedback. Anna and Brooks both had experience working on a variety of recording projects, so they both knew exactly what the general steps were and started guiding me through the process long before we entered the studio.

So while I didn't realize it at the time, the first seeds of this record were sown when Brooks and I began practicing together in February. The rest were planted in that Brooklyn/Ithaca Festival weekend a little less than a year ago. All the gear packed up, we walked downtown and Anna began spelling out to me the imperative of making an album. Rich Bennett and Rebecca Pronsky, the proprietors of Acme Hall Studios, had come to the show in Brooklyn that Friday and mentioned casually that Brooks and I should come record sometime. By the end of the evening Sunday, those plans were no longer casual. Anna talked me through the process while Brooks blocked out potential dates at the studio. I sipped my beer and nodded my head, mostly. Two months later we were headed to the studio with an album's worth of songs to lay down. I couldn't have asked for a better band-member in Brooks, or a better Producer/Musical Sherpa in Anna. Without the generosity of these two people, this record simply wouldn't have happened.

Now the record is finished: mixed, mastered, pressed, shrink-wrapped, and in boxes in my living room. The release date is 5/10, less than a week now, but you can get your paws on it before that in one of two ways:

1) Pre-order the CD here. Or you can pre-order CDs and/or digital versions here (this is the only option for International Shipping). 

2) Come to the ALBUM RELEASE SHOW in Ithaca, this Saturday, May 7th at Casita Del Polaris. Doors are at 7, music at 8. The $10 cover will get you a digital download of the album, plus there will be CDs available at a special one-night-only price :) And you'll get to hear Brooks and I play every song on the record and then some. 

As always, I have unending gratitude to you for reading, listening, showing up, and otherwise supporting this work.

​See you out there.

 A little less than four years ago, I played my first real show. It was at a small town bar. I was a regular at their open mic. The proprietor, Dorothy, took a chance on me. She booked me and told me to have two hours of material. I did, by the skin of my teeth, playing every measly song I'd written so far and all the cover songs I knew. For two months leading up to the show, I would practice for an hour or more every night after dinner. I practiced singing with a microphone and ran my full sets with a timer to make sure I could really sing for two hours. The night of the show, I brought an electric candle, a blank sheet of paper representing my "mailing list", and little picture cards with my name and Youtube channel written on the back. I set these out on a barstool, in lieu of CDs or T-shirts. In the margins of my setlist, I scribbled notes of what to say between songs and reminders to tune my guitar. 

Two people came. One of the two had come with me. Nevertheless, the experience of preparing rigorously for an event and then carrying it off without any major failures was a huge achievement. My ego may have been a little damaged that evening, but my confidence as a musician soared. I did it. I played a real show. At the end of the evening I talked to Dorothy and booked another, two months later.

What followed was one of the most prolific songwriting seasons I've ever had. In those next few months, I doubled my canon-- not hard to do considering I had only nine or ten songs so far. Still, the songs that preceded this season had taken three years to write. The more remarkable thing about these new songs was their staying power. Of the ten songs I wrote during this period, I still regularly play seven of them. Eight of the ten I still consider to be respectable efforts. For me at least, this is an incredible rate, unparalleled by any other crop of songs. Three of them made it onto the upcoming album. This one, Seven Years at Sea, did not. It was in the running, but competition was high, especially among story-songs about love and loss (I have no shortage of those). It's still a good song, one I may very well record someday in the future. Here's the first draft:

As you can see in the draft above, I tend to get out the rough ideas and form on my first pass (right page), then come back later and tinker or add what's missing (left page). Until I started writing about these songs and digging up the drafts, I never noticed this pattern. Now I'm seeing it everywhere.

Seven Years at Sea was the first of many songs inspired by a place half-remembered from childhood. In this case, the place was Boothbay Harbor. It's a coastal town in Maine that my family visited several times over the years on our long summer camping trips. The sharpest memories I have of Boothbay are the ice cream parlor by the docks, the saltwater taffy store, and the Lobsterman's Co-op. Only the ice cream parlor made it into the song. Since then, nostalgia has proved to be a rich ground for my writing-- both songs and blog posts about songs, it seems. 

Folks in the Inner Circle: you can now download this track for free. Wondering what the heck I'm talking about? The Inner Circle is just a fancy-schmancy name for folks who join my email list. I send out occasional updates via email, but mostly it's a way for me to give away some secret stuff to the people who support me. If you want to join, just sign up below: ​