Part 2

Many writers have claimed that as soon as they enter into the process, certain aspects of the narrative are out of their hands. Do you like to keep strict control over the process or is there a sense of following things where they lead you?

There’s a pretty big difference between my creative life as an artist and my creative life in my work. My work is very mapped out. But I still have to follow the hallway to the open doors. Whereas in my creative life, as an artist, I have to seek the open doors.

I don't know how to write charts or anything like that, my sight reading is rudimentary. It's primitive, at best. So for me, most of this is about impulse, and figuring it out as I go, and trying to not judge myself too much. Because my brain tells me “This is stupid, you suck. This is a terrible idea.”

I have to really fight between putting on blinders to ignore the negative self-talk, and being very expansive so that I can explore.

There are many descriptions of the creative state. How would you describe it for you personally? Is there an element of spirituality to what you do?

I'm a lapsed Catholic, a longtime atheist too. When I was younger, I really bristled at the idea of spirits or spirituality. But I realized that songwriting, even though it is highly skilled labor, there is also a magic to it that is unexplainable. I don't know where that comes from. And to me, that is sort of like god with a small g.

There is something divine that inhabits my brain that allows me to channel ideas and experiences. I don't know where it comes from, I can't explain it. And when people ask me how I do it, I say “I don't fucking know.” My whole life, every time I write a song, I’m like, “Well, that was good while it lasted. That'll never happen again.” For 30 years I've been like, “Well, that'll never happen again because I have no idea how I did it.”

There is a sort of sense memory about it. I know I can do it because I've done it. I do it every single day. But there is a magic about it, a phenomenon about it that I cannot explain. To me, that is sort of like being possessed by some kind of creative spirit. Even though I don't subscribe to a lot of the spiritual axioms, I can't deny that there is something unexplainable about it. There is a component about what I do that is unexplainable. If there is a spirituality, then that's what it feels like.

Especially in the digital age, the writing and production process tends towards the infinite. What marks the end of the process? How do you finish a work?

I am not precious when it's done. Maybe because I'm not a producer, and I know what my lane is. I know what side of the street I'm walking on.

This is actually something that I am critical of myself about, that I am very, very eager to be done. And a lot of times, I will walk away, and I'll listen to things later and just be like, “Fuck, I should have spent more time on this on that.”

Again, I try not to judge myself too much, because I'll just go crazy. But I do not have a hard time being like, “Alright, we're done. Moving on.”

Once a piece is finished, how important is it for you to let it lie and evaluate it later on? How much improvement and refinement do you personally allow until you're satisfied with a piece? What does this process look like in practise?

I'm not a tinkerer, although the pandemic sort of left me in this state of writing things. I learned how to use Pro Tools and stuff like that, which helped me to explore the foundations of the songs that I'm writing. I've tinkered a bit, but for the most part, that's not my thing.

My life is like a construction worker, I build the structure, and then I fill in the walls and the interior and the exterior. I hang all the stuff on the framework that I've built. And then I look at it, and say “are we done? We're done.” And then I move on.

I can't I can't spend too much time in one place, I'm just allergic to it.

After finishing a piece or album and releasing something into the world, there can be a sense of emptiness. Can you relate to this – and how do you return to the state of creativity after experiencing it?

When I was younger, and when I was recording Letters to Cleo, we would either be writing or we would be touring. Writing, touring, writing, touring. And if we weren't doing either, I remember experiencing that state of restlessness of “what's next, what's next.” I would generally go back to work.

Even at the height of things, if I was home in Boston, I would be back to work at the restaurant that I had been working at for years, because I couldn’t sit with that feeling of “I’m not doing anything.” It would be very depressing.

Of course, I can completely avoid that now, because my version of the restaurant now is working as a songwriter in television. I have a pretty big job and it's very demanding. Now I’m an executive producer of a television show, so I've grown into a different phase of my career, which is extremely busy and gratifying and very creatively satisfying.

I've just built up all the things that prevent me from feeling that emptiness.

Creativity can reach many different corners of our lives. Do you personally feel as though writing a piece of music is inherently different from something like making a great cup of coffee? What do you express through music that you couldn't or wouldn't in more 'mundane' tasks?

I would say that the similarity is that I approach both with a sense of care.

I don't just grab a can Maxwell House and throw it into a Mr. Coffee. I choose really nice coffee that I really like and it makes me feel happy. I love the smell of it, I like to experience it, and it's a really enjoyable part of my day. I like to put it this way - I like to enjoy things. The same is true with songwriting, I like to be present for it, and enjoy it.

I would say that the difference is that my coffee in the morning, and the care that I take in my approach has very predictable results. With songwriting, I don't really know where it's gonna take me. So it's more unpredictable than some of the other things that I do.

It’s the unpredictability, it's not like you're making a cup of coffee. At the end of it, you're like, “Wait, this isn't this isn't coffee at all. This isn't my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife”