SongLab Deep Cuts Vol. 05: You need to re-evaluate your approach to creativity

There’s a common misconception that songwriting is purely an act of inspiration: that as creatives, we’re supposed to wake up in the middle of the night when lightning strikes, feverishly scribbling down lyrics whispered to us by Justin Bieber in a dream, only to forge a chart-topping, culture-shifting hit by sunrise.

It’s a nice idea. Romantic, even. And sure, moments like that do happen. But if you’re relying on them, you’re building your career on something completely out of your control.

The reality is far less mystical and far more empowering.

Great songs don’t come from waiting. They come from working. Most artists think their problem is that they’re not doing enough sessions. And yes, sessions matter. They create structure, accountability, and collaboration. But that framing misses the bigger picture.

The real issue is output.

You’re not writing enough songs.

Sessions are just a vehicle. The goal isn’t to “be in sessions,” it’s to leave with ideas, concepts, hooks, verses, and melodies. Finished or unfinished, good or bad, it all counts. Because every song you write sharpens your instincts. Every rep builds your taste.

And taste is everything.

There’s a counterintuitive truth about creativity that most people don’t realize:

The more you write, the less you care.

Not in a careless way, but in a freeing way.

When you’re only writing one song every couple of weeks, everything feels precious. The stakes are high. You overthink every line. You second-guess every melody. You try to make that one idea perfect, and in doing so, you choke the life out of it.

But when you’re writing constantly, something shifts.

You stop gripping so tightly.

You trust your instincts more. You make decisions faster. You become okay with letting something be good instead of perfect because you know there’s another idea coming tomorrow. That mindset is where creativity thrives.

Perfectionism is the quiet killer of great art.

It disguises itself as high standards, but more often than not, it’s just fear of getting it wrong, fear of being judged, fear that this idea might be your only shot.

So you hold on too tight. You stay on the same song for hours, days, sometimes weeks, chasing a version of it that may not even exist. You drain the energy out of the room. You turn what should be a creative process into a problem-solving exercise.

And ironically, the harder you try to make something great, the less natural it becomes.

There’s also a deeper layer to this: identity.

A lot of artists subconsciously tie their self-worth to the quality of what they create. So if the song isn’t amazing, it feels like there aren’t enough.

That’s a dangerous place to create from.

Because now, every session carries emotional weight it was never meant to hold. Every lyric becomes a reflection of your value. And that pressure makes it almost impossible to take risks, the very thing creativity depends on.

When you detach your identity from any single song, you unlock something powerful: freedom.

Freedom to experiment.
Freedom to fail.
Freedom to surprise yourself.

Another overlooked truth: most great songs are not written, they’re found.

And you don’t find them by staring at the same idea for eight hours.

You find them by moving.

By starting things. By abandoning things. By following a spark for an hour and then letting it go. Writing something average on Monday leads to something incredible on Thursday.

Volume creates opportunity.

Collaboration plays a role here, too.

The best sessions have momentum. There’s a flow, an energy, a sense that everyone is building something together in real time. But that energy dies the moment one person becomes overly attached to a single line or idea.

Don’t be the one dragging a session into the ground because you’re chasing the “perfect” lyric.

Protect the vibe.

Sometimes the right move is to keep it moving: not because the idea isn’t good, but because the room needs oxygen. You can always come back to something later. But you can’t always get the energy of a session back once it’s gone.

And here’s something that separates professionals from amateurs:

Professionals finish.

Not everything. Not perfectly. But consistently.

They know when a song has given them what it’s going to give. They know when to move on. They trust that their best work will come from the body of work, not from obsessing over a single piece.

They play the long game.

At the end of the day, creativity isn’t about waiting for lightning to strike.

It’s about building a system where lightning is more likely to find you.

Write more.
Start more.
Finish more.
Let go more.

Less preciousness. More momentum.

That’s the game.

-SongLab