The Five Stages of Writing A Cue

by Robin Munson

(With apologies to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. . .)

We’ve noticed that whenever we write a cue, there are certain predictable stages that, try as we might, and as many times as we have tried to avoid them, keep cropping up like — well, use your own metaphor.

Stage I:  Denial – “I’ve got this great idea!  I know exactly what to do!  This will be a piece of cake!” You start with an epiphany.  The more outlandish or difficult the project,  the more irrational enthusiasm courses through the bloodstream.   “Silent Night” as a tango?  Jay-Z meets Celine Dion meets Ennio Morricone?  A live Czech orchestra action-adventure-comedy trailer on a shoestring budget?  “NO PROBLEM!  I’ll have this puppy wrapped up by 6:00 tonight!”  You come up with a simple melody and a three-chord riff within five minutes.  “Brilliant!”  Yeah, right.

Stage II: Anger – One hour in, enthusiasm begins to ebb.  The little melody sounds trite.  The chords sound weird.  Can’t find a decent drum sound.  The samples are clearly cheesy samples.  (Wait, maybe cheesy is good??  No.)  Two hours in, frustration begins to bubble to the surface.  Pulse quickens.  Jaw locks.  Blood pressure begins to gather steam.  “What-the-hell?  What was I thinking!  This thing sucks!”  You want to walk away screaming, but you stay glued to the workstation, pi**ed off and muttering to the screen, “God! What made me think I could write music!  I’m just a fool!  This is a colossal waste of time! I’m gonna give this up and become a dog groomer.”  Then to the no one in particular, like a madman,  ” I’ll quit! You’ll be sorry then!!!”

Stage III:  Bargaining – ” Okay (God, Universe, Buddha, Jesus. . .) If I promise to practice guitar two hours a day seven days a week for the rest of my life, then will You cut me some slack?  If I practice two hours a day seven days a week and give up watching Burn Notice for the rest of my life will You let me get this right?  Okay, if I practice seven days a week, give up Burn Notice and sex for the rest of my life will You let me get this right and, while you’re at it, get me a five-figure deal on a major show with a big fat license fee and back-end royalties up the wazoo?”  Okay.  No answer.  Louder.  “If I resist the temptation to quit and raid the refrigerator and drink myself into oblivion. . .?” Then, something inside of you, that Still Small Voice answers, “That’s the one.  Stay with it.   Then, we’ll see. . .”

IV:  Depression –  Slavishly, you trudge on.  You revise, rewrite, re-examine, tweak. You listen, and then revise, rewrite, re-examine, tweak, listen, and listen again.  Your heart sinks. The drum sound still sucks.  You then spend an afternoon just finding the right kick drum.  All your high hopes are crashing and burning.  The English horn that sounded like Tommy Newman on his best day now sounds like crap.  So you substitute a saw wave.  (You don’t know why.  But you do.)  The overwrought choir that once reminded you of Carmina Burana is now just annoying.  You start to feel like you’re chasing your tail.  Your appetite is gone along with your last shred of self-respect.  Existential angst sets in and like a voice crying out in the wilderness you ask, “Does it matter at all?”  And so it goes.  Finally, you begin to mix.  Five days in, you feel like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck.  You don’t know what you’ve got, but you know you’ve got to stop.   If you listen one more time your head will explode.  You decide to sleep on it. You sleep the sleep of the dead.

Stage V:  Acceptance – You wake up the next morning with one single burning desire; to put this puppy to bed!  You linger over breakfast trying to stall the inevitable.  Finally, you open the door to the studio.  You listen through the headset.  “Okay, not bad. . . ” You turn on the speakers.  “Maybe. Yeah, I kind of like that.  It’s good.”  You call in your best friend to listen.  They say it’s “GREAT!  THE BEST WORK YOU’VE EVER DONE!!”  At first you doubt their authenticity, but then, you decide to believe them.  Then you realize — “This is the best I can do for this moment..  It may not be perfect.  It may not even be exactly what I set out to write.  But I can rest easy knowing that I’ve given it my all.”  As the farmer said to Babe:  “That’ll do, pig.  That’ll do.”  All the rest is out of your hands.  You write the description, tags, and title and you upload.  You cross your fingers and let it go.  On to the next. . .