You Were Always a Songwriter (You Just Forgot the Melody)

There’s something ancient in you that remembers rhythm.
Not because you studied it.
Because you are it.

Before the industry, before formal training, before you told yourself you weren’t “that kind of creative”—you were already making songs.

They lived in your footsteps, your journal entries, your half-sung voice notes, your rants in the kitchen.

Maybe it’s time to bring them back.

What If We’ve Been Lied To?

Somewhere along the way, we started believing creativity was a luxury. That songwriting belonged to professionals. That making music required money, gear, “talent,” or fame.

But think about this: Birds sing. Not because they have a record deal. Because it’s how they know they’re alive.

You’ve probably written a song already—
you just didn’t call it that.

Songwriting as Everyday Alchemy

What is a song, really?

• A feeling you didn’t know how to explain

• A moment that needed to be marked

• A rhythm that started in your chest before it ever hit the air

Maybe it shows up as:

• The way you pace when you’re overwhelmed

• That one line that keeps repeating in your mind

• A phrase you say often, like a catchphrase your soul keeps trying to get your attention with

Songwriting is how we metabolize experience.
It’s self-help that sounds good.
It’s therapy that doesn’t require sitting still.
It’s a personal protest against numbness.

Creativity Lives in the Mess

Forget clean notebooks. Forget “doing it right.”
The best songs start in chaos—in car rides, closets, breakdowns, daydreams, showers, and late-night voice memos.

This is not about being productive.
This is about being honest.

Creativity, when it's real, isn’t tidy.
It’s revolutionary.
It’s weird.
It’s deeply local, fiercely independent, and unmistakably yours.

But What If I Don’t Know Where to Start?

Start by listening.
Not to the charts.
To yourself.

You already speak in rhythms.
You already think in chorus and verse.

Try:

• Writing one line that hurts a little

• Singing it with your eyes closed

• Giving yourself permission not to share it with anyone

• Or…maybe, eventually, share it with someone who gets it

There’s no wrong way to write a song.
The only mistake is assuming you can’t.

Local Magic, Global Echoes

There’s something special about songs that come from real places.

Not cities—moments.
Not studios—kitchens.
Not algorithms—hearts.

This isn’t about going viral. It’s about going inward.
And maybe, quietly, outward.

Your song might be exactly what someone else needs to hear to remember that they, too, are made of melody.

You Don’t Need a Guru

You need space.
You need trust.
You need the right nudge at the right time.
(Not a course. Not a five-step funnel. Just…a whisper of permission.)

Sometimes, reading a post like this is enough to start.
Sometimes it’s a podcast you stumble on, a stranger’s workshop, a journal prompt.

You’ll know what’s for you.
When it’s time, it’ll feel like something cracking open.

Songwriting Is Not a Career Path (It’s a Survival Skill)

Even if you never release anything…
Even if no one ever hears your work…
Even if your lyrics stay locked in the Notes app forever…

You’ll still be changed by the act of writing them.

That’s the real point.

Writing songs is how we stay human in a world that keeps trying to automate us.

A Quiet Suggestion

If you feel like you’re circling this idea—
If something in you is humming right now—
If you’ve made it this far down this page…

Maybe it’s not an accident.

Maybe you’re supposed to write a song this week.
Maybe you’re supposed to hear from someone who reminds you it’s okay to start messy.
Maybe that person is already in your orbit.

You’ll find what you’re looking for.
Often in the small, scrappy corners.
Often when you’re not even looking.

A Final Thought

Songwriting doesn’t belong to the elite.
It belongs to the broken-hearted, the overly sensitive, the too-much, the overthinkers, the daydreamers, the ones who feel like their voice might not matter.

It matters.

And it doesn’t have to be loud to be heard.

🕊️
Write something today. Even if it’s just one line.
The rest will follow.
It always does.

The Bob Dylan Myth: How the "Voice of a Generation" Paved the Way for Capitalist Pop Culture

This is admittedly one of my most controversial takes. Hear me out.

Bob Dylan is often hailed as a prophet, a poet, and the voice of the people. But what if I told you that Dylan was the Reagan of music — a turning point where folk authenticity was swallowed whole by fame, myth-making, and the rise of the solo “genius” over the collective spirit of community-driven music?

Let’s talk about how the commodification of Dylan's persona paved the way for everything we hate about the modern music industry.

1. From Protest Singer to Pop Culture Product

Dylan’s early years were full of protest, heart, and street-level spirit. But as he grew into his fame, he rejected the very folk communities that raised him — turning from protest to poetry, from collaboration to isolation. He went electric not just musically, but ideologically.

2. The Birth of the Celebrity Songwriter

Before Dylan, folk music was about people — collectives, traditions, families, communities. Dylan made the songwriter a celebrity, creating a culture where personality outshined purpose. Suddenly, being a genius was more important than being in solidarity.

3. The Hijacking of Folk’s Ethics

Izzy Young, one of the great patrons of the folk revival, believed in supporting folk music as a community movement. Dylan played at Izzy’s store in New York and Stockholm, but never brought that spirit back to the masses once he was famous. Folk music became a performance instead of a conversation.

4. Dylan and the Death of Collective Credit

The idea that one man could encapsulate a movement is a corporate dream. No more messy collectives, no more fair pay splits — just one face, one story, one brand. This is the foundation of the modern music industry. And Dylan laid the first bricks.

5. Fame as the End Goal

Dylan once said he didn’t want to be the voice of a generation — and maybe he didn’t. But the industry certainly sold him as such, and he didn’t exactly fight it. This marks the beginning of the “careerist” artist, where personal brand became the product, not the music itself.

6. What We Lost

In the wake of Dylan, we lost something precious — the sense that music belongs to everyone. The coffeehouse became a concert hall. The jam circle became a Spotify playlist. And folk songs became lyrics printed on T-shirts instead of sung around campfires.

7. The Capitalist Pipeline

Bob Dylan → Bruce Springsteen → U2 → Coldplay → TikTok pop stars. A line of artists increasingly distanced from community roots, increasingly entangled in spectacle and branding. It’s not Dylan’s fault alone, but he’s a critical turning point — dare I say the Reagan of songwriting— where it all went wrong.

8. Redemption Is in the Revival

The good news? We can revive what was lost. Folk is coming back — in basements, backyards, forest festivals, and songwriting circles. Music is finding its way back to the people. Dylan taught us that one person can shape a generation — now let’s reshape ours differently.

Conclusion:

Bob Dylan was not the villain — he was the canary in the coal mine. The warning. The inflection point. If we want a future where music is not dictated by markets but by meaning, we need to reclaim folk from fame. We need to go backward — into basements, into small stages, towards each other.

Because real music doesn’t come from record labels — it comes from people like us.