Edit Desk: My musical diary, finding solace in songwriting

There’s always a bit of a shock factor when I tell people I love to write songs. 

And inevitably, of course, the next thing they do is ask me to play one. That’s when I freeze. 

I’ve been writing songs since I learned how to write. My second grade self would scribble lyrics into my journal and tap my pencil against my white desk in my room to create a beat.

It was free therapy. Every strong emotion I felt would turn into a song, sometimes multiple emotions at once. 

During the COVID pandemic, I taught myself how to play the guitar to bring my songs to life. Suddenly, they began to sound like something I might hear on the radio, and it was invigorating. 

I used to bask in the spotlight whenever I pulled out my guitar and played. Throughout my freshman and sophomore years of high school, I was set on being the next Taylor Swift.  

I performed at open mic nights, constantly shared new songs with family and friends, and even recorded two songs in a studio. It was an incredible experience, but then I began to notice a shift in my approach to music.

Songwriting had always come naturally to me. Lyrics would flow out like a stream of consciousness, and I rarely second guessed the process once I had written them down on paper. 

However, by sophomore year, I began to view my songs through the lens of an outside listener. I would put each word on trial for its life, thinking about how it might be perceived. I would switch the words so much that the original intent I had for the song would get completely lost by the end. I had become my harshest critic. 

Slowly, the magic began to slip away. Songwriting became stressful, because I was fixated on creating the “perfect” song, one that everyone would like, rather than producing something that meant a lot to me. 

During my freshman year, I had written an entire album within the span of a few months. Yet, there I was a year later, barely able to finish a single song in the span of several weeks because I was constantly revising. 

What I was writing no longer felt authentic, and with that, my connection to the music I was writing began to fade. So, I took a break. 

For about a month or so, I stopped writing. I continued to play my guitar but only sang cover songs and wished I had written them myself. 

During my break from songwriting, I relied solely on writing in my diary as an emotional outlet. I figured that getting my feelings out on paper in any way would serve the same purpose.

While it did help, journaling never fully captured the emotions I was experiencing. But with songwriting, the words could flow and move with a melody parallel to how I was feeling. 

This was something journaling could never replicate. 

One day, I wrote a line in my diary that I found especially lyrical, and without noticing, I began to hum a tune to accompany it. Songwriting came back as naturally as it began when I was in second grade, before I learned guitar and long before I understood what I was doing. It was like I was starting all over again with a fresh headspace.

Naturally, I found myself picking up my guitar and pencil. This time, I decided I wouldn’t share any of my new ideas. 

The magic returned. I wrote songs like no one would ever hear them, and that feeling of freedom meant everything. 

The topics I was writing about hadn’t changed drastically, as I was still using my everyday thoughts, feelings and struggles as inspiration. But my songs were personal again and no longer this overpolished version of the story I wanted to tell. That was the key. 

I’ve continued to maintain this privacy around my songs ever since. My close friends and family often ask if I still write or if I can play them a song. Sometimes I share something, but rarely.

There’s always going to be a part of me that wants to share my music with the world. However, holding my songs close to my chest makes them even more special. 

In a world where so much feels performative, I feel more grateful than ever to have a private outlet and a safe space to authentically express myself. 

While I may never share my songs with a broad audience, they still mean so much to me, because they serve as a time capsule of emotions and experiences only I can truly understand.