December 2009 GoatNotes

Yes, this is a repeat. We've been in the studio and it's been occupying all my time. I hope you enjoy this!
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Hendrix December 09 GoatNotes

"But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry."
- Cynthia Rylant

View her entire piece at www.terrihendrix.com/poetry.html

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As a kid, I was always the first one up on Christmas morning. With the lights from the Christmas tree illuminating a path through the dark, I'd gingerly make my way towards my brother and sister's stockings, reach inside them, and steal most of their chocolate candy. I'd eat some right then and there, and stash the rest in my own stocking — after taking the candy I *didn't* like out of it and "regifting" it into my brother and sister's stockings. When finished, I'd fluff their stockings back up, making sure they were in the exact place on their hooks in which I'd found them. Having grown full from all the sweets, I'd burp (quietly!), make my way back to my room, hide a few chocolates under my pillow, and then go back to sleep.

It's really no surprise, then, that the first guitar I ever "owned" was in fact one that I stole from my sister, shortly after Christmas. I "borrowed" it, with green ribbon still tied around the handle of its shiny new case, from underneath her bed. Soon after, I was immersed in a Mel Bay songbook (found in her case), with the verses and guitar chords to tunes like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Skip to My Lou." My father soon joined in on the fun, and we'd howl through the chorus of "Little Brown Jug" with me hacking away at the chords. A few months later, at the age of 8 and after mastering the morbid classic "Tom Dooley," I played my first bar — well, barre chord, that is. As my fingers tried to strrrrrrretch into the F position, I created a shortcut instead (to spare the life of my index finger), and within another month turned myself into a three-chord wonder.

A few years later, I discovered it was easier to make up my own songs than remember the words to Willie Nelson's "Crazy" or John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." And that's how I ventured into songwriting. I'd take their guitar chords and substitute my words for theirs. My newfound "original" music sounded like theirs, but with our family dog Tiger as my sole audience, who was gonna notice? I dubbed my first self-perceived masterpiece "Bob-tailed Cat." There was an episode with a gun in it. That song raised eyebrows, but what really got the ol' family fired up was "Female Dog," which I wrote in my sister's honor. Upon its discovery, I soon found my lips wrapped around a bar of soap, my mother standing over me with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.

After that — my first bad review — I quit writing songs that could easily be found by others. With one arm draped protectively over my work, I began writing my musings down on multiple slips of paper. And then I stopped writing anything at all. Perhaps it was the insecurity of adolescence that did it, or the lack of an original melody, but that sudden beam of creativity which had turned my imagination to liquid and made words seem to pour out of my mind like a waterfall ... it went off like a light. In the dark, the words drew to a trickle and then to a complete stop. Having worn my eraser to a nub on the final lyrics of a chorus, one afternoon I cleaned up my wads of paper, closed my mind and my guitar case, and for the most part, wouldn't open either again until I was in my early 20s.

I was doing absolutely nothing when the creative juices started flowing again. In retrospect, maybe that's why they did. I'd become too busy to write. I began to edit myself, and before long, I no longer made the time to agonize over the rhyme. The child-like wonder of the whole process had been replaced with ... self-doubt.

When I'm involved in teaching a creative workshop, I often encounter other folks who wonder if their songs are any good, or who worry about how their songs compare with other people's songs. Sometimes they're just plain stuck. I remind them that every writer I've ever known that was brave enough to pick up a pen and/or a guitar has felt the same way. Writing takes practice, and whatever we bring to the table is unique unto us, but every writer at some point wrestles with self-doubt. And it's self-doubt (and over-confidence, too) that seeds the weeds that prevent songs from ever reaching sunshine. For me, I've found that the best way to cut through those weeds and find my way back to the light is to quit worrying about writing as an adult and approach it like I did as a kid, perched over my sister's guitar with stolen chocolate on my fingertips.

When you write like a kid, there's always something new to discover. There are ideas for songs everywhere. When I catch one, I call my cell phone and leave myself a message so I don't forget. To this day, largely due to the "Female Dog" incident of my childhood, I can't write an entire song on just one sheet of paper, so I don't even try. I write my thoughts on Post It's, napkins, airline barfbags (really), and if in a crunch, toilet paper. But I never throw any of my lyrics away, even if they don't seem any good at the time. If I get hung up on a line, I put parenthesis around it and move on. And on the days when I can't think of a melody, I still write to someone else's music. Upon the song's completion, I'll revisit the melody and come up with my own chords. They're all shortcuts that help me finish a song, just like the shortcuts I came up with as a kid when I was learning to make an F chord.

Sometimes songs get stuck (or I get stuck in songs) not for lack of creativity or other mental blocks, but simply because the songs aren't ready to be songs yet. Sometimes songs sit unfinished for years. But if a song's *meant* to be a song, sooner or later (sometimes *much* later), it all falls into place. Within time, whatever kinks there may be (like lines not folding within the measures correctly) turn the sand within the oyster into a pearl, or ... an appetizer for what's to come. I often round up my most stubborn unfinished tunes and marry them to each other. I make them live together for awhile, and if they get along, vows are exchanged. Sometimes the union produces kids, and that's when I'll get a theme for a record started.

As for subject matter, for me, I like M&M's with my popcorn. It's a mixture of the Yin and Yang, light and dark, bitter (or salty) and sweet — and anything that reads well, speaks personal truth, or that could be framed within a portrait that makes a song speak to me.

"Is there magic to it?" I've been asked. I guess the answer would be yes. It's a lot like the holidays. Songs wave hello and good-bye like the season. They come as gifts and open up our hearts to see things we only felt in our souls. Some twinkle like Christmas lights. Some ring out like carols for all to sing along too. And yes, some stink up the house like burnt sugar cookies, or are received with as much enthusiasm as socks or fruitcakes. But the wonder of it all is that there's an endless supply of them, waiting in each of our hearts to be written.

Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix

(C)(P) THM Music December 2005

www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536


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