Flying Monkeys in the Land of Oz

You learn to write by writing and if anyone responds, even if it’s

only your Mom, no, especially if it’s only your Mom, then you’ve done

something worthy of the time it took to do it. My Mom was my first

barometer, because she took such delight in each new song, or cried if

it moved her, or quoted my lyrics to friends who needed

encouragement. She would give recordings of my songs to people,

clerks at checkout counters, the Charlie's Chips delivery man, or friends

at work, and tell them, “You need to hear this; it will help you.” She

did not get me a single career connection, did not enter me in beauty

pageants, and did not promote me to talent scouts. I’m sure she would

have, but she was too busy responding to my music from her soul, and

if it helped her, it would help others. Her honest heart-felt response

and the piano she bought for me were the best gifts she could have

ever given me, that and a glimpse of faith. I began my artistic

journey with the firm belief that my music mattered, that it was

powerful, and that people needed what I had to offer.

A song is art. That is its spiritual power. That’s how it heals,

comforts, compels you to dance, or gets stuck in your head; because it

is art.

The music industry is the business that makes the art available to

people. This seems so basic, but it is so easily forgotten. My Mother

didn’t care if there was a music business and neither do any of the

other people who are moved by your music.

I had the privilege of writing with some of Nashville’s top writers

the first year I moved to town. One of them had a string of hits

happening. He was making great money and was in high demand. He

said to me, “Start right now giving your music the priority. You have to

take time to write. It’s the most important thing you do, but time to

write will be the first thing to go once you get into the business.” He

was right. Suddenly you’re at this meeting and that meeting, number

one parties and how-to panels, playing writer’s night after writer’s

night contributing to the vibe of the town and gradually writing less of

your best. The distractions will swoop and swirl around you like those

creepy flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. The tyranny of the urgent

overtakes the important, and if its not the biz doing it to you, it will be

relationships, financial pressures, family, the dog, alcohol, or getting

the oil changed in your Corolla.

Once you sign your first publishing deal, the danger becomes

writing for the industry instead of for the people who need your songs.

On the streets of music row you hear much complaining about the

sad state of radio, the same songs being played over and over, the

same songs being played over and over (see what I mean?). This is

one of the few things that has never changed since I’ve been in the

business. It is because most writers and the publishers who sign them

quickly forget the rule my friend taught me. Don’t let anything get in

the way of the writing, not even flying monkeys.