Goose
As a performing songwriter people would sometimes ask me advice about songwriting. Guess what was by far the question asked most often? "How can I make sure my songs aren't stolen?" I was always surprised by this and kind of saddened.
I always wanted to say "What makes you think your songs are worth stealing?" (But I didn't).
Are we good, and do we think we're good, and are we as good as we think we are, is another conversation I want to have. But for now, let's just say that the people asking me this weren't getting their songs heard by anyone. Maybe they were scared their stuff would be stolen, as if plagiarizers and song thieves haunt every jive-ass bar and cabaret, as if we, the artists, were flashing our gold chains in the wrong part of town.
Maybe they just missed the entire point.
Doing art, or music, or dance, or theatre-or-whatever isn't about possessing. That great American novel that we always hear is in someone's drawer isn't there because of rejection letters and the cruel realities of this world. No, it's there because somebody didn't have the nerve to take it out of the drawer and share it.
Share. It.
Art and writing and music are the cake, and we don't get to have it, and we don't eat it either. We serve it and we watch you, the audience, savor it. And we don't cry, like in that weird Jimmy Webb song, that "I'll never have that recipe again," because, guess what? We WROTE the recipe. We can make that cake, or another cake, or a pot roast, if that's what inspires us.
I believe that inspiration comes from God, and a God who made 40,000 different species of fish is not a God of abundance. He is a God of a ridiculous overkill of abundance that threatens to drown us all in its splendor and plenty. If I write a great song - and by the way what is that? A song that will make me rich? A song that will make you cry? A song that will finally make you understand what it sounds like when doves cry? You tell me. If I write a great song by any measure, and someone is able to get their paws on it and perform it and get it played on the radio or sung by someone fabulous... even if someone takes my song and says that he wrote it... is that supposed to be the great tragedy of a writer's life? Because I don't get that.
If somebody gets my song played on the radio, I gotta say Wow! Thanks. You got my song farther than I could. And, should that happen, I still know that I wrote that song, and I can write another one. The thief can only steal what someone else made, and how sad is that?
When we write or create we channel something of God by creating something that never was, and we do that because God created US. He created us to create, and he's not messing around. We're not designed to squeak out one or two and then quit and take up woodworking.
In the fairy tale, there is a goose that lays eggs of solid gold and the foolish thieves steal the golden egg. They want more, and they don't want to wait for it, so they cut the goose open because that is where the golden eggs come from. When we were little kids hearing the story we knew that was a bad move. If you steal my song it's still a bad move, because I'll just write another song. I'm the goose who lays the golden eggs.
So is anyone who creates. There is no room inside me for all that gold, all those eggs that are yet to be. Who can explain it? There is only time and the mystery of God's abundance.
And lots of golden eggs, for anyone who is willing to wait.
It goes farther than that. It's not just about stealing songs. There are also foolish thieves who try to steal your soul. They crinkle potato chip wrappers during your 16 bar audition and they write cutting comments in the margins of your term paper and they go out of their way to tear down your abilities when they could just say "Thanks." It hurts, so much, but make no mistake: they are foolish thieves and they walk away empty handed. They are usually the same people who cannot give - support or compliments or accolades - because they are so empty themselves.
They are throwing away gold with both hands, because being able to love on someone else's work ALWAYS throws a little love back on me. Have you ever noticed that when you're feeling wonderful, you spread it around? I find myself stopping strangers in the supermarket to say "I just love that purse!" or marveling at the beauty of an old woman's face or suddenly noticing how someone's really pedestrian effort at doing something - anything - has honor and value.
They're foolish because tearing down your ability does not build theirs up one bit, and they won't know that until they have many years and a high body count to look back on and regret. I know that feeling, oh trust me.
I am pecked and bitten and wounded by foolish thieves, these days, but they don't get anything from me in the end. I will heal, and I will sing and write and continue to rely on God's mysterious abundance and the golden eggs He gives. I am not better because I create, and I don't make someone else worse who does not. A foolish thief can tell everyone who will listen what is wrong with my voice or my songs or my heart and soul, and it doesn't really matter in the end.
My gifts can't be stolen. I'm the goose. And so are you.
I always wanted to say "What makes you think your songs are worth stealing?" (But I didn't).
Are we good, and do we think we're good, and are we as good as we think we are, is another conversation I want to have. But for now, let's just say that the people asking me this weren't getting their songs heard by anyone. Maybe they were scared their stuff would be stolen, as if plagiarizers and song thieves haunt every jive-ass bar and cabaret, as if we, the artists, were flashing our gold chains in the wrong part of town.
Maybe they just missed the entire point.
Doing art, or music, or dance, or theatre-or-whatever isn't about possessing. That great American novel that we always hear is in someone's drawer isn't there because of rejection letters and the cruel realities of this world. No, it's there because somebody didn't have the nerve to take it out of the drawer and share it.
Share. It.
Art and writing and music are the cake, and we don't get to have it, and we don't eat it either. We serve it and we watch you, the audience, savor it. And we don't cry, like in that weird Jimmy Webb song, that "I'll never have that recipe again," because, guess what? We WROTE the recipe. We can make that cake, or another cake, or a pot roast, if that's what inspires us.
I believe that inspiration comes from God, and a God who made 40,000 different species of fish is not a God of abundance. He is a God of a ridiculous overkill of abundance that threatens to drown us all in its splendor and plenty. If I write a great song - and by the way what is that? A song that will make me rich? A song that will make you cry? A song that will finally make you understand what it sounds like when doves cry? You tell me. If I write a great song by any measure, and someone is able to get their paws on it and perform it and get it played on the radio or sung by someone fabulous... even if someone takes my song and says that he wrote it... is that supposed to be the great tragedy of a writer's life? Because I don't get that.
If somebody gets my song played on the radio, I gotta say Wow! Thanks. You got my song farther than I could. And, should that happen, I still know that I wrote that song, and I can write another one. The thief can only steal what someone else made, and how sad is that?
When we write or create we channel something of God by creating something that never was, and we do that because God created US. He created us to create, and he's not messing around. We're not designed to squeak out one or two and then quit and take up woodworking.
In the fairy tale, there is a goose that lays eggs of solid gold and the foolish thieves steal the golden egg. They want more, and they don't want to wait for it, so they cut the goose open because that is where the golden eggs come from. When we were little kids hearing the story we knew that was a bad move. If you steal my song it's still a bad move, because I'll just write another song. I'm the goose who lays the golden eggs.
So is anyone who creates. There is no room inside me for all that gold, all those eggs that are yet to be. Who can explain it? There is only time and the mystery of God's abundance.
And lots of golden eggs, for anyone who is willing to wait.
It goes farther than that. It's not just about stealing songs. There are also foolish thieves who try to steal your soul. They crinkle potato chip wrappers during your 16 bar audition and they write cutting comments in the margins of your term paper and they go out of their way to tear down your abilities when they could just say "Thanks." It hurts, so much, but make no mistake: they are foolish thieves and they walk away empty handed. They are usually the same people who cannot give - support or compliments or accolades - because they are so empty themselves.
They are throwing away gold with both hands, because being able to love on someone else's work ALWAYS throws a little love back on me. Have you ever noticed that when you're feeling wonderful, you spread it around? I find myself stopping strangers in the supermarket to say "I just love that purse!" or marveling at the beauty of an old woman's face or suddenly noticing how someone's really pedestrian effort at doing something - anything - has honor and value.
They're foolish because tearing down your ability does not build theirs up one bit, and they won't know that until they have many years and a high body count to look back on and regret. I know that feeling, oh trust me.
I am pecked and bitten and wounded by foolish thieves, these days, but they don't get anything from me in the end. I will heal, and I will sing and write and continue to rely on God's mysterious abundance and the golden eggs He gives. I am not better because I create, and I don't make someone else worse who does not. A foolish thief can tell everyone who will listen what is wrong with my voice or my songs or my heart and soul, and it doesn't really matter in the end.
My gifts can't be stolen. I'm the goose. And so are you.
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