Creating art 2 years into a global pandemic

I haven’t written a song in 11 months.

Remember at the start of the pandemic, when we were all locked down in our houses and trying desperately to convince ourselves to appreciate the change of pace that was forced upon us? Remember when we were being told, “Shakepeare wrote King Lear during the plague!!” and “Now you have time to start a side hustle!”? It felt like one of the only ways to escape the dystopia seeping into our everyday lives was to be productive. To pretend that we had been given an opportunity instead of a trial to endure.

The pressure was on.

The Washington Post wrote about the possibility of “groundbreaking creation” in the midst of the pandemic, noting that “in perilous, isolating times, we hunger with a special zeal for great work by artists who can capture the experience for us.”

And I agree that great art about terrible times can be healing, helpful, and therapeutic. Some artists rose to the challenge and threw themselves into creating. Some of us froze.

I’ve always used songwriting as therapy - crying while coming up with chord changes, fitting clever rhymes into lyrics detailing utter heartbreak, and sorting through my own emotions by the end of the writing session. I don’t mind sitting in misery for a great song. But the past two years have been so different. The misery is not mine to work out. I can’t solve the issues with 3 verses, a chorus, and a bridge. And honestly, I feel too steeped in the troubles of the world, like tea that’s been left too long and is now bitter. I’m sad all the freaking time; I don’t really want to force myself to feel that sadness even deeper so I can create art about it.

But I also don’t want to write about anything else. Michael and I had a slightly dark but lighthearted conversation about not wanting to face our feelings during a time of so very many feelings, and we floated the idea of focusing on writing a concept album that we’ve had in the backs of our heads for a little while. It would be pure fantasy, no need to look inward. Or outward. We could put on our imagination blinders and still be songwriters.

Attempting to combat dread with flippancy 👍

Sadly, the idea of escaping the current world by writing a story is itself a fantasy. Great art always holds nuggets of truth. I think that’s what artists sign up for, and at the same time strive for - the baring of the soul, whether it’s theirs or the world’s.

In a week and a half, February Album Writing Month will begin. This will be my 11th year, and Michael’s 14th year participating in the challenge to write 14 songs in the 28 days of February. We both do the vast majority of our songwriting for the year in this cold, wintry month, and I think that greatly affects the type of songs we produce. July songs are pop, drums, lust, sweat, festival crowds cheering. February songs are blue-gray, introspective, open tuning, quiet guitar, third cup of coffee, stubborn hope. In February I must write honest songs about the vast amount of pain we’ve all been wading through for the past two years. I really don’t want to, but I am a songwriter and I want to be a songwriter forever, and I think it might be time to drag myself kicking and screaming through the sad stuff so I can get to the other side.

I’m reminded of the children’s story/song, “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt” - we can’t go over it, we can’t go under it. We’ve got to go through it.