I started this blog post a few months ago. I never posted it. But now with the Grammy's coming up and my draft not feeling so hideous, it feels germane.

WHAT I WROTE THEN:

I have been thinking a lot about the perfect song in the last few months as I've been working on a draft of my very imperfect novel.

It's partly because I have been having an enduring love affair with Mumford & Sons Sigh No More album since I first heard it almost a year ago. It contains an embarrassing number of perfect songs (and I'll get to my definition of perfect in a minute). And because I came late to Adele's 21, which contains one perfect song. And also because of an ongoing dinner-table conversation my husband and I have about musical artists who will release one incredible album, only to follow it up with a dud. (Yes, this is what we talk about over dinner. Now you know where Adam comes from.)

We argue about why this is. What is with the follow-up slump? Do bands use up all their inspiration? Do they choke? Do they get so much attention from the perfect song/album that bigtime producers come in and muck around with what was a perfectly simple recipe? Or is it that the perfectly good recipe worked for one album, but not the next? Or perhaps maybe the perfect record/song was a product of alchemical serendipity that is never to be repeated?

I understand that a perfect song is subjective but to me, a perfect song is a lot like Mumford & Son's "Sigh No More" or "The Cave." Or Adele's "Rolling in the Deep." Or some of the other songs I've put on the list below. A song that starts out with some kind of riff or rhythm that catches your attention straight away, gets your toes tapping. Then it starts to build, bringing it added instrumentation or vocals that create or sort of maelstrom effect, so that the next thing you know, your into the song in both a physical and emotional way. This is all happening on the first or second listen—long before you pay attention to the lyrics, which are subtle or profound or just lovely. Then the music builds and builds and you feel it build in you so that your emotions build with it until you have a sort of crescendo or catharsis or dare I say it? climax with the music itself. When I hear a perfect song when I'm running, I will sometimes feel like I have wings. A perfect song makes me feel like I can fly. (And no, sorry, R. Kelly,  not yours).

What I want to know about the perfect song is that the ingredients, seeming so obvious to me—the girl who can play rudimentary chords on a guitar but that's about it—are they obvious to every musician? Do they know that the perfect song is out there but just can't quite get it? Do they think they've got it? Do they give up? Do time constraints get in the way? Does creativity run out? Or do they think they've written the perfect song and I just happen to disagree?

For my husband, these musings are philosophical and aesthetic. For me, they are a bit more grounded in the real life. Like every writer I know, I'm trying to write the perfect song.  I want every book I write to make my readers feel like they can fly. Which, you know, is a pretty tall fucking order. I might as well wish for world peace while I'm at it. And also the abolition of car alarms. And someone to bring me a perfect sandwich like the kind they make at WitchCraft whenever I need lunch (like now).

And like every writer I know, I'm frustrated by the chasm between what I am hearing in my head and what I'm hearing, so to speak, on paper. Sometimes, a song comes out before you even realize you're writing it. I wrote IF I STAY in three months without even realizing I was writing a book. I don't know if it's perfect but it is the way it should be. There is no chasm in my mind between how the book should be and how it is. WHERE SHE WENT took me 21 drafts. It was a muddled song. I didn't know if I would ever get there. I got there, but only after turning it into my editor and having her say two really smart things that made me realize I was writing in the wrong key.

Now I'm deep in a new book and feeling miles away from any kind of melody, let alone a perfect song. And the terrifying part is knowing. Knowing the wide distance between what you can accomplish and what you are producing and knowing that you might not ever get there. That at some point, you won't get there.  I try to calm myself down. My deadline is not for three months. I have several months of tinkering, and then my editor extraordinaire gets her hands on it and we go through the revision process all over again.

AND NOW:

So that's where I stopped. Because it was just seeming too depressing because I genuinely worried I'd never get there. Because this book is kind of outside my comfort zone (no musicians, no death; how twisted that death is my comfort zone).

But then I just got to work. And kept chipping away, and I don't know that the song is perfect, but it's definitely starting to sound like the tune in my head. At least to me. How it sounds to you all is an entirely different matter and we all have our own opinions over what comprises a perfect song (mine is correct, though).

Also, as it happens, the Grammy nominations were announced a short while after I wrote this blog and it created a bit of a Perfect Song War in our household in the Best Song category, with my 4 year-old favoring Adele, my 7 year-old loving Katy Perry's "Firework, "and me and the husband firmly in the Mumford Camp. I don't know that "Firework" is a perfect song, but it's pretty damn catchy, so I've added it to the list.

Why do you think most bands can't repeat the magic, if you indeed think that? And what are your perfect songs? Tell me and I'll post a new playlist.

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