Finding A Honey Tree

Notes on Creativity, Slowing Down, and Writing

Mar 23, 2025

There’s a book I read recently called The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. You might know her from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or An American Childhood. This one is different. It’s short, kind of fragmented, and honestly one of the best things I’ve ever read about making stuff.

There’s a section early in the book where she describes how to find a honey tree.

“To find a honey tree, first, catch a bee... release it, and watch where it goes. Bee after bee will lead you toward the honey tree…”

She compares it to writing a book. Or how a book leads its writer. I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Because that’s what songwriting feels like to me most days—you catch a little idea, a line or a feeling, and follow it. You have no idea where it’s going to end up.

But that’s the job. Catch a bee, see where it takes you.

chasing that thing you can't name

Logan Pearsall Smith once said:

“The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection, even though it consists of nothing more than the pounding of an old piano, is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star.”

That one hit me in the gut.

Because that’s what this whole thing feels like. Not just songwriting, but creating in general. You’re chasing something you can’t quite explain. You’re following a thread, hoping it leads somewhere honest. And if you’re lucky, maybe even beautiful.

But the second you start chasing the result, it all slips away.

slow down and listen

I had Steven Wilson Jr. on the podcast a while back, and I asked him what his best advice was. He said, “Slow down.”

“Literally, I think the key to music is slowing everything down. Because you can always speed it up.”

From playing a scale, to writing a lyric, to figuring out what you actually want to say—there’s no race. There’s no stopwatch. And for me, slowing down has changed everything. It’s changed how I write. How I see. How I live.

Dillard writes:

“The page, the page, that eternal blankness... which you cover slowly, affirming time’s scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity... that page will teach you to write.”

She also says: Aim for the chopping block.
Not the wood. Not the result. The process.

That’s what I’ve been trying to focus on.

what do you love about it?

One of my favorite quotes from the book is from a painter who said he became an artist because:

“I liked the smell of the paint.”

I love that.

It made me stop and think—what do I love about the work itself?

I love the smell of stale beer and warm gear when you’re loading out after a show. I love the dopamine high of the show mixed with the satisfaction of a perfectly packed trailer. I love the moment in a co-write when the song cracks open and starts revealing itself. I love the silence right before a crowd sings the chorus back to you.

That’s the stuff that keeps me coming back. That’s the smell of the paint.

solo writing & rediscovery

Since I moved to Nashville, I’ve only written about 15 songs completely by myself.

That changed recently, and it kind of started when I had Tom Douglas on the podcast. He talked about rediscovering the joy of writing alone. And something about that stuck with me.

So I’ve been writing more by myself lately. And it’s been... kind of wild. There’s something raw and personal about it that co-writing can’t replicate. Even if the songs don’t end up being “commercial,” they’ve helped me reconnect with the part of myself that started writing in the first place.

And when I bring that energy into the room with other writers, it makes me better. It makes me want to be there. It’s unlocked something new.

getting off the hamster wheel

After my last record came out in August, I decided to take a step back. I’d been on a cycle—posting songs every 4-6 weeks, pushing content daily. And yeah, it worked. Sort of. But I didn’t feel fulfilled. I didn’t feel like I was moving in the direction I really wanted to go.

Then I went to a Rothko exhibit in Paris.

If you’re not familiar with his work, it’s huge abstract color fields—paintings that make a lot of people say “this isn’t art.” But to me, they felt like music.

The exhibit walked through his whole career. In the early rooms, his paintings were good—but not Rothko. Portraits, subway scenes. You go a little further and find out he quit painting for a while. Got disillusioned. Wrote a book on the philosophy of art that never got published.

But eventually, he came back. And on the next floor, you see the beginnings of what would become his signature style. Not quite there, but close.

Then you get to the top floor. His masterpieces. The ones that take your breath away. And they mean so much more because you saw the road it took to get there.

That exhibit reminded me: there’s no shortcut. You have to walk the path. You have to make the early paintings.

You have to keep catching bees.

draw and do not waste time

The Writing Life reminded me that the work is the point. That chasing inspiration is worth it, even when it doesn’t make sense. Especially when it doesn’t make sense.

If you’re feeling lost—it's okay. Being lost is part of it.

And if you’re waiting for a sign: this is it. Pick up the pen. Sit down at the piano. Open the laptop. Call your co-writer. Go to a museum. Go smell the paint.

I’ll leave you with the final quote from the book, which Annie Dillard shares near the end. It was a note found in Michelangelo’s studio, written to his apprentice: