Writing Better Lyrics

by Pat Pattison

  Expanded Object Writing

  In her book, Popular Lyric Writing: 10 Steps to Effective Storytelling, Andrea Stolpe incorporates some commentary, some “telling,” into her object writing, calling it “destination writing.” She recognizes that good song ideas, especially titles, come just as easily from the “tell” side as the “show” side of your writing.

  For example, I was tempted to add one more line to the passage I wrote about the yellow slicker for the “Puddle” exercise:

  I remember stomping through puddles on Duluth Avenue in St. Paul when I was seven. I had a yellow slicker that smelled like my rubber boots and my boot and buckles jingled when I walked. All the cool guys left their boots open.

  Even though it isn't sense-bound, I like the last line, especially the tone it takes. It's a comment — a “tell.” It might be a line in a song, maybe a comment after a few sense images set it up.

  You might want to use some tells in your object writing, but you might wait a few weeks before you do — getting really sense-bound is hard work. You need to practice being specific and sense-bound to do it well in the context of building a song. Remember, showing is one of the most powerful ways of getting listeners involved in your song.

  Neither object writing nor destination writing is journaling. In journaling, events, emotions, and “how I really feel” drive the bus. It's usually about self-exploration, not so much about writing. And that's fine. But object writing and destination writing are about writing. They are a preparation for writing songs. They have a specific purpose.

  WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY, HOW

  It's fair to say that object writing is “what” writing. There are other possibilities, especially who, when, and where. One of the more interesting aspects of “destination writing” is its incorporation of these added elements.

  “Who” is great for character development. In every song, you have to answer these questions: Who is talking? Who is she/he talking to? Sometimes the character is pretty much you, talking either to the audience or a particular person. Sometimes it's not. Either way, keep the character in focus. What is the song about? What is the character trying to say? Why? Be as specific as you can, using sense images that evoke something about the character. Try using the character's senses, even if the character is you. And remember, your song doesn't have to be an accurate autobiography. Never let reality get in the way of truth.

  Practice using other perspectives. Your object writing can be from the perspective of an airline flight attendant, hurrying to serve drinks on a short flight. Or a volunteer at an animal rescue shelter. Sting's “Stolen Car” is told from the perspective of a car thief, and his “Tomorrow We'll See” is from the perspective of a male prostitute.

  People watching is full of interesting possibilities. Ask yourself questions: Does she play golf? When did she learn? What was his favorite game when he was little? Of course, you'll be drawing on your own experiences as you answer your questions. And always stay close to your senses. Specifics. Sense images.

  I also recommend this kind of storytelling when hanging out with other writers. You might even make a special trip to the mall or the airport to exercise your powers of observation. (I call it “the airport game.”) As somebody passes you, ask your friend a question: Who did he take to his junior prom? Does she get along with her younger sister? Take turns asking questions.

  “When” can be seasonal — “across the morning sky, all the birds are leaving.” It can be a time of day — “midnight at the oasis.” Or it can be a special occasion — “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” Play around with it. There's lots of stimulation available here. Try writing five minutes on “summer morning” or “dusk.” Maybe “Christmas party” or “Thanks-giving dinner.” Watch the ideas tumble out.

  “Where” can be anywhere. That's its strength. The Wailing Wall, 42nd Street, a lake cabin, the Grand Canyon, a mountain path, the backseat of the school bus. The opportunities are endless.

  Even “how” may be useful. “Forging a sword” or “learning to ride a bike,” for example.

  “Why” seems like it's more for telling. Maybe you can come up with a few ideas here.

  CATALOGING THE GOOD STUFF

  If you write on a computer, create a file for your gems. When an exciting image or idea drops into your object writing, mark it and save it in your file. (Mine is called “frag.”) If you write in a notebook, leave the first five pages blank and transfer the gems there. The gem spot will be a good place to look for interesting stuff when you need stimulation.

  Though object writing generates nifty lyric ideas, the main purpose is stimulation, deepening the world you swim in. Over time, your senses will take you places you never would have been as you see the world more and more through your writer's eyes.

  Object writing makes the art of diving automatic, a sensible habit. Even when you start exploring abstractions like “friendship,” you'll dive instinctively where the good stuff is — into your own unique sense pool, rather than into some ether of abstractions. Your lyric writing will benefit by drawing from a unique and provocative source, and everyone will listen. I promise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RUSTY'S COLLAR

  A LESSON IN SHOWING AND TELLING

  Once you become adept in your object writing, with bushels of sense-bound images glittering on the kitchen table, what do you do with them? Here's some food for thought.

  When I was in kindergarten, we got a new puppy.

  I told Sister Mary Elizabeth, “I got a new puppy. His name is Rusty.”

  “That's nice,” she smiled, in her kindergarten teacher sort of way.

  “Can I bring Rusty to school for Show-and-Tell?”

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her finger (they always shake their fingers). “We don't bring our pets to school.” (Who is we, anyway?)

  I put on my best sad, irresistible face, and it had the usual effect. So she was quick to say, “But you could bring something of Rusty's, a picture, or his collar to show to the children. Then you could tell about him.”

  I walked home as fast as I could after school — making my way nine blocks down Jessamine Avenue to Duluth Avenue, then another three blocks down Duluth to our row of Quonset huts — a whole mile!

  A little breathless, I asked my mom, “Can I bring Rusty's collar to school tomorrow for Show-and-Tell?”

  “Of course.”

  I was excited all night. The next morning there was Rusty's collar laid out on the kitchen table next to my Superman lunchbox. What a good mom. I hurried through breakfast, pulled on my snowsuit, buckled my overshoes, wrapped my scarf around my face, yanked on my mittens, grabbed my lunchbox, and headed for St. Casimir's Grade School.

  “I brought Rusty's collar for Show-and-Tell.”

  “That's nice,” Sister Mary Elizabeth cooed, in her kindergarten teacher sort of way.

  I hung my moon suit in the cloakroom and went to my desk to open my Superman lunchbox: a Spam sandwich with French's Mustard, a hard-boiled egg with salt wrapped in waxed paper, a banana, a celery stick with peanut butter in the groove, and Twinkies. No Rusty's collar.

  Apparently, I had forgotten it in my hurry to leave. It was probably still on the kitchen table. I assumed that Mom had put it in my lunchbox.

  “I forgot Rusty's collar. Mom didn't put it in my lunchbox.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” said Sister Mary Elizabeth.

  “Can I do Show-and-Tell anyway?”

  “No, no,” she said gently, shaking her finger (they always shake their fingers). “You can't tell unless you show first.”

  YOU CAN'T TELL UNLESS YOU SHOW FIRST.

  To this day, I call that the “Sister Mary Elizabeth Rule of Song-writing.” Show before you tell. Showing makes the telling more powerful because your senses and your mind are both engaged.

  The Sister Mary Elizabeth Rule of Songwriting says: First, hold up Rusty's collar, and then say what you will. Look at this example:

  All the t
hings we used to do

  Those dreamy teenage nights

  Nothing matters like it did

  Back when you were mine

  Try showing Rusty's collar first:

  Hot rod hearts and high school rings

  Those dreamy teenage nights

  Nothing matters like it did

  Back when you were mine

  Think of Rusty's collar this way: “Hot rod hearts and high school rings” is a bag of dye. Hang the dye on top of the section and let it drip its colors downward onto the other lines, giving them more interest and depth.

  Even if you show Rusty's collar just a little later:

  Nothing matters like it did

  Those dreamy teenage nights

  Hot rod hearts and high school rings

  Back when you were mine

  We still get colors, but the law of gravity says that they'll only drip downward, leaving us starting with:

  Nothing matters like it did

  Those dreamy teenage nights

  This has less color than when we followed the Sister Mary Elizabeth Rule of Songwriting. Colors drip down, not up. Show first, and watch everything else gain impact:

  Hot rod hearts and high school rings

  Those dreamy teenage nights

  Nothing matters like it did

  Back when you were mine

  The teenage nights get dreamier. We're really able to feel the emotion of:

  Nothing matters like it did

  Back when you were mine

  Now, look at this example, from Gillian Welch's “One More Dollar”:

  A long time ago I left my home

  For a job in the fruit trees

  But I missed those hills with the windy pines

  For their song seemed to suit me

  So I sent my wages to my home

  Said we'd soon be together

  For the next good crop would pay my way

  And I would come home forever

  One more dime to show for my day

  One more dollar and I'm on my way

  When I reach those hills, boys

  I'll never roam

  One more dollar and I'm going home

  Look what happens when we forget to bring Rusty's collar to school:

  A long time ago I left my home

  For a job in the city

  But I miss that place and the things I did

  Now it all seems so pretty

  So I sent my wages to my home

  Said we'd soon be together

  For the next month's work would pay my way

  And I would come home forever

  One more dime to show for my day

  One more dollar and I'm on my way

  When I reach that place, boys

  I'll never roam

  One more dollar and I'm going home

  Instant bland. David Rawlings, Welch's partner and an ardent student and practitioner of songwriting, called me with this beige version, remarking how he'd just turned the song into a disaster by trading the specific image for a cliché rhyme, city/pretty. “Look how completely it destroys a perfectly good work,” he chuckled.

  When you're writing, it's fine to just let things flow. But always be on the alert for potential “collars.” Don't leave Rusty's collar on the kitchen table, no matter how excited you are to get to school and tell everyone about your new puppy.

  The Sister Mary Elizabeth Rule of Songwriting: Show before you tell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MAKING METAPHORS

  Metaphors are not user-friendly. They are difficult to find and difficult to use well. Unfortunately, metaphors are a mainstay of good lyric writing — indeed, of most creative writing. From total snores like “break my heart” and “feel the emptiness inside” to awakening shocks like “the arc of a love affair” (Paul Simon), “feather canyons” (Joni Mitchell), “soul with no leak at the seam” (Peter Gabriel), and “brut and charisma poured from the shadow” (Steely Dan), metaphors support lyrics like bones. The trick is to know how to build them.

  In its most basic form, a metaphor is a collision between ideas that don't belong together. It jams them together and leaves us to struggle with the consequences. For example, an army is a rabid wolf.

  We watch the soldiers begin to snarl, grow snouts, and foam at the teeth. The army disappears, and we are left to face something red-eyed and dangerous. Of course, an army isn't a wolf. All metaphors must be literally false. If the things we identify are the same (e.g., a house is a dwelling place), there is no metaphor, only definition. Conflict is essential for metaphor. Put things that don't belong together in the same room and watch the friction: dog with wind; torture with car; cloud with river.

  Interesting overtones. Let's take a closer look. There are three types of metaphor:

  An expressed identity metaphor asserts an identity between two nouns (e.g., fear is a shadow, a cloud is a sailing ship). Expressed identity metaphors come in three forms:

  “x is y” (fear is a shadow)

  “the y of x” (the shadow of fear)

  “x's y” (fear's shadow)

  Run each of these through all three forms:

  wind = yelping dog

  wind = river

  wind = highway

  Now come up with a few of your own, and run them through all three forms. You might even try extending them into longer versions (e.g., clouds are sailing ships on rivers of wind).

  A qualifying metaphor uses adjectives to qualify nouns, and adverbs to qualify verbs. Friction within these relationships creates a metaphor (e.g., hasty clouds, to sing blindly).

  A verbal metaphor is formed by conflict between the verb and its subject and/or object (e.g., clouds sail, he tortured his clutch, frost gobbles summer down).

  According to Aristotle, the ability to see one thing as another is the only truly creative human act. Most of us have the creative spark to make metaphors, we just need to train ourselves a bit and direct our energy properly.

  Look at this metaphor from Percy Bysshe Shelley's “Ode to the West Wind”: “A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed / One too like thee…” Hours are links of a chain, accumulating weight and bending the old man's back lower and lower as each new hour is added, an interesting way to look at old age.

  Great metaphors seem to come in a flare of inspiration — there is a moment of light and heat, and suddenly the writer sees the old man bent over, dragging a load of invisible hour-chains. But even if great metaphors come from inspiration, you can certainly prepare yourself for their flaring. The next section will help to train your vision, help you learn to look in the hot places, and help you nurture a spark that can erupt into something bright and wonderful.

  PLAYING IN KEYS

  Like musical notes, words can group together in close relationships, like belonging to the same key. Call this a diatonic relationship. For example, here are some random words that are diatonic to (in the same key as) tide: ocean, moon, recede, power, beach.

  This is “playing in the key of tide,” where tide is the fundamental tone. This is a way of creating collisions between elements that have at least some things in common — a fertile ground for metaphors. There are many other keys tide can belong to when something else is a fundamental tone — for example, power. Let's play in its key: Muhammad Ali, avalanche, army, Wheaties, socket, tide.

  All these words are related to each other by virtue of their relationship to “power.” If we combine them into little collisions, we can often discover metaphors:

  Muhammad Ali avalanched over his opponents.

  An avalanche is an army of snow.

  This army is the Wheaties of our revolution.

  Wheaties plug your morning into a socket.

  A socket holds back tides of electricity.

  Try playing in the key of moon: stars, harvest, lovers, crescent, astronauts, calendar, tide.

  The New Mexico sky is a rich harvest of stars.

  Evening brings a harvest of lovers to th
e beach.

  The lovers' feelings waned to a mere crescent.

  The crescent of human knowledge grows with each astronaut's mission.

  Astronauts' flights are a calendar of human courage.

  A new calendar washes in a tide of opportunities.

  Essentially, a metaphor works by revealing some third thing that two ideas share in common. One good way of finding metaphors is by asking these two questions:

  What characteristics does my idea (“tide”) have?

  What else has those characteristics?

  Answering the second question usually releases a veritable flood of possible metaphors.

  Often, the relationship between two ideas is not clear. Muhammad Ali is hardly the first idea that comes to mind with avalanche, unless you recognize their linking term, power. In most contexts, Muhammad Ali and avalanche are non-diatonic, unrelated to each other. Only when you look to find a link do you come up with power, or deadly, or try to keep quiet when you're in their territories. Always asking the two questions above opens up these relationships and helps you develop metaphor-seeking habits. Here are several exercises to help you get hooked.

  EXERCISE 4

  Get a group of at least four people. Divide the participants into two equal groups. Have each member of one group make an arbitrary list of five interesting adjectives. At the same time, have each member of the other group make an arbitrary list of five interesting nouns. Then combine their arbitrary lists. This usually results in some pretty strange combinations. For example:

  adjectives

  nouns