How a lesson from Jimmy Webb cured my perfectionism.
When I left university, I was determined to get better at songwriting. I’d had a year of working on composition, arrangement and orchestration - a highlight of which was making the soundtrack for 'And Then Everything Changed' - but songwriting has always pulled me back in.
I’d sent off a couple of songs to my senior lecturer, Dai Griffiths, for his critique - so naturally he was my first port of call. I fired off an email, knowing he was busy and that ultimately he wasn’t my lecturer anymore, but he still replied with a beautiful message. He told me to read Jimmy Webb’s book Tunesmith and listen to the album Ten Easy Pieces, which is almost like a reference guide for the book itself.
I’m ashamed to say that before that, I wasn’t aware of Jimmy Webb - but his book and work would change my life.
If you haven’t read Tunesmith, you should. Every chapter is inspiring, game-changing and incredibly self-aware. It’s the perfect songwriting companion and guide - including recommendations for other books (such as the rhyming dictionary I now use every single day). It had me hooked, and I read it as fast as I could, determined to take my writing to a new place.
One of the chapters, In This Room, You Will Never Mistake, completely rocked my world. Webb tells the story of one of his first songwriting gigs, and how someone told him that in the room he was working in, he wouldn’t make any mistakes. At first, he thought it was the boss piling on the pressure - but it led him down the path to songwriting freedom. What he was really saying was, make whatever you like - everything will be good for something.
Until then, I’d been such a perfectionist and leaned heavily on the idea that I had “writer’s block.” Once I took Webb’s method on board — to be disciplined, write something for a set block of time, then walk away - I realised all I needed was to fix the time and create something, regardless of where it might end up. Sometimes that meant adding to a song I’d been stuck on; other times it was a silly little tune. Either way, it didn’t matter - because I was making something.
The freedom that gave me was liberating. I went from writing four songs in a year to writing loads in a very short time - the songs that became the albums Here, of All Places, Writing Home and Yule Love This Christmas. I’d sit down every day and write literally anything - and before I knew it, these songs just existed. It felt incredible.
I believe that once I stopped waiting for inspiration or some kind of divine intervention and treated writing like brushing my teeth, everything started to happen. Until that point, I’d been a perfectionist - realising that no such scenario exists (including in the creative process itself) allowed me to have fun writing again.
Writing became less about chasing brilliance and more about showing up - that’s where the magic lives.
Even now, every song begins with a timer, a cup of tea, and the hope that something appears. I’m yet to have a session where it doesn’t — even when it’s just silly songs about nothing in particular. What’s even better is that once you’re in the habit of doing it, songs start appearing out of thin air. People say lyrics to you in their turn of phrase, and old air-conditioning units give you new rhythms - but I could write a whole other piece on that.
So, if you ever catch yourself feeling blocked, chances are you’re just waiting for permission - permission to make something bad, messy, or half-finished. To me, that’s the key to that warm, fuzzy feeling when everything just clicks as you’re writing.
Give it a try.
