- Blog #3 -
Most people probably imagine composing as sitting at a piano, playing a guitar, or staring at a screen, writing notes until something clicks. And mostly, that’s true.
But, for me, the part that takes the longest — and matters the most — doesn’t look like much at all.
I feel, that a surprising amount of the work is invisible. It happens before anything is written, and long after something technically “works.”
It’s the waiting.
The listening.
The decision not to add something.
There are days where the most productive thing I do is not touch a cue. I’ll listen once, walk away, and let it sit. Not because I’m stuck — but because I have learned that forcing an idea rarely makes it better. Most of the time, it usually just makes it louder.
Another unseen part of what I do, is throwing things away.
Not bad ideas.
Good ones.
Sometimes I write music that does its job, hits its marks, and would probably pass without comment — but still, just doesn’t feel right to me. That’s a hard thing to explain unless you’ve lived with it. There are times (granted, when there IS time) I have made the choice to actually delete something that “works”, so something better has room to appear.
When I write now, versus even just a few years ago, there is a lot more restraint involved. Knowing when not to solve a moment. When silence is more honest than another layer. When the emotion is already there and doesn’t need help.
That judgment doesn’t come from inspiration. It comes from the time of living with "it", breathing “it” in and out. Waiting, and listening.
I remember a cue a few years ago that I kept revising. Each version was cleaner, more polished, more impressive. And each one was further away from what the scene actually needed. When I finally stripped it back to almost nothing, the scene clicked instantly. Nothing new was added — most of it was removed.
That part doesn’t show up on a cue sheet.
From the outside, it may look like the work happens quickly, and sometimes it does. But, I feel speed is often the result of this quiet, unseen labor — learning when to act and when to wait.
This is the part of composing no one really talks about. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s hard to quantify. There’s no metric for taste. No credit for restraint.
For me? It’s where the work actually happens.
And it’s the part I trust the most.