A LOVE LETTER TO SONGWRITING

PROSE BY KATE WHITEFIELD

It was deep purple, slightly larger than a picture frame. On the front was the phrase, “Chase your dreams, you might catch one.” Even at age eight, I rolled my eyes at cheesy sayings like that, and I preferred soft blue to bold violet. Suffice to say, this notebook was not one I’d picked for myself. I feigned interest in the thing by running my hands along its fresh spine and ruffling the crisp pages with my thumbs. When I flipped the cover open, I discovered the journal’s single unique quality: a brief message penned by a familiar feminine hand. I looked up at her.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a songbook,” she replied, “so everything you write can be in one place.”

I hugged the book to my chest. Suddenly, purple was my favorite color, and the quote about dreams no longer seemed contrived. This was my songbook. Real songwriters had songbooks. Prior to receiving this newly prized possession, I’d scrawled my musical musings onto computer paper and pages ripped from spiral notebooks, like an amateur. But the purple notebook legitimized me. I was a songwriter.

I ran to my bedroom and began scribbling away. I imagined the song I wrote that day would become my first hit, played on every radio station in the country. I’d travel the world performing, and fans would come from far and wide to hear my songs.

As you might have guessed, those wobbly pencil scratches did not lead to worldwide fame and success. In fact, most songs never left my bedroom (which in hindsight is a good thing—my third-grade self was not as immune to clichés as she thought). But the songbook gave me something much more substantial than all that. It allowed me to foster a creative skill that became intrinsic to myself and my worldview.

Songwriting is the outlet through which I have come to understand myself. Over the last ten years, it has been the vessel to navigate me through treacherous waves of anger, confusion, disappointment, and loss. It has allowed for celebration in moments of success and reflection in seasons of contentment. It has captured teenage frustration and girlish giddiness. It has been my therapy, and, as time has passed, a documentation of my life. When I play an old song of mine, I’m tossed back into the person I was at the time of its creation. I’ve discovered that in this world, the closest thing to a time machine is a guitar and a quiet bedroom.

Songwriting has also encouraged me to cherish the small things. I like being busy and thrive under pressure, but I admittedly have a tendency to overbook myself. It can be tempting to let my hectic schedule get the better of me and wake up dreading the day. But the likes of Joni Mitchell, Madison Cunningham, and coffee shop open mic regulars have conditioned my brain to notice the simple moments of peace and beauty each day has to offer. Wilco in the living room. Finger scars from cheap guitars. The clink of the microwave against ceramic plates. An early morning moon, a midwestern sky. Lavender and chapstick and skin. Petrichor and sweet coffee. Songwriting has gifted me with an ever-present sense of patience and gratitude. It has opened my eyes to simple beauty in everyday life.

Nowadays, the yellow pages curl inwards and the spine has been duct-taped several times over. I haven’t written in that purple songbook in years but will never get rid of it. It is a reminder I am capable of turning negative situations into lessons and positive situations into memories. Wherever I end up in life, I know songwriting will remain a steady source of comfort. And when even that thought proves insufficient in quailing looming anxieties, I recall that inscription on the inside cover: