APPENDIX

CO-WRITING:

THE “NO”-FREE ZONE

The best advice I ever got on co-writing was from Stan Webb, my first professional co-writer. When Tom Casey, a VP at SESAC in Nashville, set up the appointment for me, he asked Stan to talk to me a bit about the Nashville co-writing process, a process that dominates the songwriting culture there.

I was waiting in the SESAC writers' room with my notes and titles, some complete lyrics, some song ideas, but I was feeling pretty nervous. I am, after all, a big-time professor at the biggest-time music school in the world — Berklee, where I teach lyric writing, and, like most writers, I'm a bundle of insecurities. What if I can't come up with anything? What if he thinks all my ideas are dumb? (They don't look too good to me right now.) What if he thinks I'm a fraud? Not only would that humiliate me, but it would put my students' credibility in question, too, and it'd be all my fault. Why am I here? Maybe I should leave while there's still time. Couldn't I say I got food poisoning?

Too late. The door opened and there stood Stan Webb, my co-writer for the day, a guy with hits. Stan is a burly guy. He looked a bit shaggy, wearing bib overalls, a tattered T-shirt, and work boots, looking like he'd just come off the farm (which, in fact, he had — he owns one, bought with songwriting royalties). He came in, and then he did something curious: He shut the door, re-opened it, shut it again, and then pushed hard to make sure it was closed. Hmm. Was he worried about folks listening in and stealing our good ideas? I was deeply concerned just with having a good idea. I'd be so relieved if I managed to just have one that, as far as I was concerned, the secret listener would be welcome to it.

He sat down opposite me on a couch and seemed to size me up. He grinned and said, “Is that door closed?” Yikes. “Yes, it is,” I answered carefully, not knowing where he was going with this. Was it a secret initiation? “Good, I'm glad it's closed,” he said, “because you can probably tell by looking at me that I'm gonna say some of the dumbest things you've ever heard.” I stayed quiet. I was more worried about what he thought of me. He went on, “And if you do your job right today, you're gonna say some of the dumbest thing I ever heard, professor or not.”No doubt there, I thought. He grinned again and said, “But, as long as that door is closed, nobody needs to know how dumb we are. I won't tell if you won't.”

He told me that he hoped I didn't mind, but Tom had asked him to talk to me about the co-writing process in Nashville, so he wanted to tell me just a couple things before we got going on a song. I told him to take his time.

He said, “Say everything that comes into your head. Say it out loud, no matter how dumb it is. Don't censor anything. If you say something really dumb, you might give me an idea that's not quite as dumb. And then I might have a decent one that gives you a better one that gives me a great one. If you'd never said the dumb one, we would never get to the great one.

“So that means that we'll never say ‘no’ to each other. A co-writing room is a ‘no’-free zone. If you suggest a line and I don't like it, I just won't say anything. Silence is a request for more, more, more. It says ‘just keep throwing stuff out there.’ When either one of us likes something, we'll say ‘yes.’ Otherwise, just keep going.”

We had a great writing session. I lost my fear of looking like a fool. I came up with a lot of dumb ideas, and my dumbest idea of all led us to the best part of the song. We really did say everything. And the silences were golden — what a great way to ensure that we always get the best out of each other. Nobody has to defend anything, and the only ideas in the song are automatically ones we both love. The “no”-free zone gets the best out of both writers. There are no arguments, and there never needs to be compromise.

I've always been grateful to Stan for his wise advice that day. It helps me every time I co-write, but also every time I write. My inner critic (my most frequent co-writer) has also learned to abide by the “no”-free zone. And Stan's words still echo in the songwriting classrooms at Berklee College of Music, where hundreds of students have worked in the “no”-free zone, and have had great co-writing experiences because of it.

Thanks, buddy.

I'll add some advice of my own to Stan's, because, in Berklee writing classes, we talk about writing a lot. Lots of process, lots of techniques. And it really helps their writing — learning what goes into it, what tools are available. My students learn to talk about writing very well. They are good technicians, as well as good writers.

Thus, my advice: Never talk about writing in a co-writing room, especially about technique. Telling what you know about writing isn't writing. You're supposed to be writing, not talking about it. Stay inside the song, inside the characters. Don't run away to the intellectual level. Most people are tempted to talk about those wonderful technical effects in their lines — assonance, rhythm, deep thoughts, metaphors — out of fear to cover their bases and try to dress up what they're afraid might be a dumb idea in academic robes. A dumb idea is still dumb, even with professorial robes on. Don't worry about dumb. Just write. And write fearlessly.

Don't be afraid to write crap — it makes the best fertilizer. The more of it you write, the better your chances are of growing something wonderful.