It was like the songs showed me the path from that despair to where I’d always rather be.
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I used to get angry when I was young and I’d hear the loud applause after some band I loathed had finished one of their lousy songs.
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Whenever I try to travel back in time and rewrite the choices I made I can feel how unnatural it would have been for me.
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There is something immediately exciting about another person bringing their imagination to a project that had previously lived entirely in my mind.
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My inner-critic is what I sound like when I believe I have to do something to please someone else.
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How useful misery can be when it reminds me of what I’d forgotten
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My true creativity reacts to nothing, but is an expansion of an idea already in motion.
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Home is both the destination, the place of rest and resolve, and also the source of all creation.
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All the chords in the world won’t put a song in your heart, and all the nifty writing craft won’t give you a story.
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The men and women who told me stories were no longer the wizards I once perceived them to be.
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I simply can’t be wrong when I like something.
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Skill and craft are very helpful, but they are nothing without that gem of an idea that needs translating.
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An idea arrived that interested the artist and their only ambition was to complete that idea.
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When it comes to taste, you simply couldn’t get it wrong unless you try to live by someone else’s.
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