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. . .
Thanks to everyone for your comments. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who’s struggled with all of this. Maybe there should be a 12-step program for recovering composers – “I admitted that I was powerless over my compulsion to re-write. . .”
Funniest and absurdly true thing I’ve read in awhile. I almost lost my lunch laughing. A classic!
Hi Michael – LOVE Stage VI. I will make a mental note of that! I do also enjoy the challenge of writing outside of my comfort zone. It’s fun to stretch, and sometimes I surprise myself. I guess there’s room for both arguments, and everyone just has to figure out what works for them. But for me, letting go of the self-flagellation and negativity is important — I can’t think, let alone write with all that shouting in my head! Thank you for your kind words.
Great read Robin. Very entertaining. I would add Stage VI: seeing the cue on your PRO statement, or
getting a deposit into your Paypal account!
With respect to a previous comment:
“The key is to write what you know, love and understand and not try to be everything to everyone.”
For me, I have to disagree. The thing that I enjoyed most about scoring documentaries was the opportunity to write whatever the project demanded. I enjoy the challenge. If I just wrote what I’m comfortable with, I’d get bored. It’s the same with production music. I usually get to run with the ball in whatever direction I want…always learning, still improving….after 35 years! I love it.
Thanks, Edouardo!
Yep — I can relate!
Love this!
I’m currently in the ‘eternally adjusting and procrastinating stage’ so that the tracks ends up nothing like my original idea!
I used to believe in all this, but now I think it’s just an indicator that you’re approaching everything wrong. I finally realized you don’t have to be miserable. The key is to write what you know, love and understand and not try to be everything to everyone. True, you won’t be right for every job, but your work will have a strength that over time people will seek out for. Or you can continue to try to please everybody, let a million voices into your head and suffer your way through writing music that, although “useful” in some way, will not be anything that anybody would ever willingly listen to.
Hi Rick — Thank you for your thoughtful comment. I do want to say that this little piece was actually written tongue-in-cheek; just riffing on what so many of us have felt at one time or another, but greatly exaggerated for entertainment purposes.
But seriously — I struggled for a long time. I’ve known a lot of artists – really great ones – who have struggled that way too. Thankfully, a few years back I just gave up on the craziness. I decided to simply write whatever I felt like writing and let the chips fall where they may. Some people like it. Some people don’t. Sometimes I actually do get money for my writing. That’s nice and it helps pay the rent. But the important part for me is — I love to write, and without all of those critical voices in my head, it’s sheer joy.
But I do take your point. It’s the old tried-and-true wisdom: Write what you know. And you’re also right that the suffering is really much worse when we’re young. Now at the ripe old age of (ahem!) I can take a step back, and even laugh at all of that angst. Well, most of the time, anyway!
“I used to believe in all this, but now I think it’s just an indicator that you’re approaching everything wrong.”
Ha!
I agree. I may not be as successful or prolific as the people at the top, but I outright refuse to be miserable. I have learned to filter the noise out. If I fail, I fail on my own terms.
🙂
DI and Rick, thumbs up for the wisdom! I am currently in the middle of this transition of thinking lol! Thanks for putting my state of mind in words.
And Robin, super thumbs up to for this accurate story of our lives.
I remember a quote from Sting once where he said, “Songs are never completed, they’re abandoned”
So true!
Absolutely… abandoned, and it’s so funny sometimes how some can come alive again years later!
In my experience, songwriting can be even worse. But — We soldier on. . . What else can we do?