Songwriting as Practice: Where Everyday Writing Meets Zen

Most people talk about songwriting as if it’s something that happens to you.

Inspiration strikes. A song arrives. You catch it before it disappears.

That story sounds nice, but it doesn’t describe the everyday reality of writing songs. Most songs are not lightning bolts. They’re built quietly, over time, through repeated acts of showing up. And that’s where songwriting begins to look a lot like Zen Buddhist practice.

Not Zen as a religion (in actual fact it never was a religion) or Zen as an aesthetic but Zen as an outlook on how to engage with the world through simple, repeated action.

When you strip both songwriting and Zen down to their essentials, they start asking the same things of you: return to the work, pay attention, let go of control, and accept what shows up.

Showing Up Without Guarantees

In Zen practice, you sit.

You don’t sit because today’s session will deliver enlightenment. You sit because sitting is the practice. The act itself is complete and anything else that happens is just a by-product.

Songwriting works in the same way, whether we admit it or not. You write songs without knowing if today’s session will produce anything usable.

Some days you leave with a chorus. Some days (if you’re lucky), a complete song and some days you leave with nothing but crossed-out lines and a frustrated mind.

The mistake is treating those empty days as failures. They’re not. They’re just part of the work.

When songwriting is approached as a practice rather than a results machine, the pressure shifts. Writing becomes something you return to, not something you demand answers from.

Over time, that steady return matters far more than any single breakthrough.

Beginner’s Mind and the Weight of Experience

Zen talks about something called the beginner’s mind. It’s the idea of approaching each moment without assumptions, even if you’ve done the thing a thousand times before.

Songwriters struggle with this more as they improve.

The longer you write, the more rules you collect. You learn what works. You learn what audiences respond to and you learn what a “good” song is supposed to sound like.

Eventually, all that knowledge starts speaking louder than the song itself.

Beginner’s mind doesn’t mean ignoring craft. It means not letting craft strangle curiosity. Some of the strongest writing happens when you forget what you’re supposed to do and listen instead. The song doesn’t care about your track record.

It responds to attention, not authority.

Letting Go of Attachment to Ideas

Zen places a lot of emphasis on non-attachment. Not in the sense of indifference, but in the sense of flexibility. Holding too tightly creates suffering. Letting go allows movement.

Songwriting exposes attachment quickly.

You fall in love with a line. A melody feels sacred. An early demo feels finished because it moved you in the moment. Then the song stops progressing. You push harder. Nothing moves.

Often the problem isn’t effort. It’s grip.

Songs have a way of asking for change. Sometimes that means dropping the line you like most. Sometimes it means rewriting the section that “should” already work.

Letting go doesn’t mean the idea was wrong. It means the song is alive enough to demand more honesty.

Presence Over Performance

Zen is grounded in the now. Not yesterday’s sitting. Not tomorrow’s insight. Just this breath, this moment.

When songwriting is working, the same thing happens. You stop thinking about who will hear the song. You stop imagining how it will be received. You’re listening. Adjusting. Responding.

The moment you start writing for an imagined audience, you leave the room. The work becomes performative rather than attentive. Presence pulls you back. It asks you to deal with what’s actually happening in the song, not what you hope it will become later.

Making Peace With Imperfection

Zen doesn’t promise a clean mind. It doesn’t eliminate distraction. It simply teaches you not to fight it.

Songwriting is full of imperfection. Half-finished songs. Dead ends. Ideas that exist only to teach you what doesn’t work. Trying to eliminate this mess is a fast way to stop writing altogether.

Just like the empty days I wrote about earlier, rough drafts are also not evidence of failure. They’re evidence of forward movement.

Every song that doesn’t make it teaches your hands and ears something the next one will need. Perfectionism interrupts that flow. Acceptance keeps it going.

Ego, Control, and the Illusion of Ownership

Over time, Zen softens the idea of a solid, central self in control of everything. You still act, but you stop pretending you’re the sole author of every outcome.

Songwriting does something similar if you stay with it long enough.

Songs resist control. They change as you work on them. They reveal things you didn’t plan to say. Eventually you realise you’re not forcing them into existence. You’re cooperating with something unfolding in real time.

This isn’t mystical. It’s practical. When the ego steps back, the work gets clearer. You stop trying to prove something and start listening for what’s already there.

Finding Meaning in the Ordinary

Zen doesn’t search elsewhere for meaning. It finds it in ordinary life. Washing dishes. Walking. Breathing.

Strong songs often do the same. They don’t rely on spectacle. They pay attention to small moments: a quiet room, a familiar street, a passing thought that refuses to leave.

Songwriting isn’t about manufacturing significance. It’s about noticing what already has weight and giving it a voice. Attention is the tool. The material is everywhere.

The Practice Is the Point

Neither Zen nor songwriting offers shortcuts.

Both ask you to return, again and again, to simple actions done with care.

• Sit.
• Write.
• Listen.
• Let go.
• Repeat.

Over time, something changes. Not because you chased it, but because you stayed present long enough to notice it.

The work doesn’t promise enlightenment or masterpieces on demand. It offers something quieter and more durable: a way of engaging with your craft that can last a lifetime.

And in the end, that may be the deepest link between songwriting and Zen.

The practice itself is enough.