Essays by Matthew Wilson

By Matthew Wilson For a long time, I assumed that "real" musicians sang. I also expected that, with enough time, I would naturally become a more technically proficient songwriter. I would have liked to write songs like some of my favorite artists do, but I knew early on that I wasn't going to be a carbon copy of someone else. For years, I wrote conventional songs. I tried to improve my singing, wanting my songs to feel more "complete." But because they never completely felt like me, I gradually stopped trying to force them. One of my hardest lessons wasn't learning my craft. It was realizing the craft I admired wasn't quite the one I was meant to practice. That's when things began to change. I enjoy ideas as much as melodies, love atmosphere, and appreciate space. Some of my reflections felt stronger than lyrics, as I discovered that my speaking voice communicated differently than pure instrumentals or the experiments I did with my sin...

By Matthew Wilson It can feel as though creativity comes with an invisible scoreboard. Streams. Followers. Albums. Recognition. Technique. Productivity. Even within supportive communities, comparison quietly finds its way into our thinking. I spent years wondering where I measured up. The musician I thought I needed to be was a technically proficient one, remembering everything, collaborating easily, producing more, and keeping pace. And I wasn’t necessarily competing with others. I was the only one competing. I compared my music to professionals, to my memory, to my productivity, and to my technical ability. No one asked me to. I simply assumed that was how creativity worked. Living with schizoaffective disorder meant learning to accept limitations in my memory, processing, and energy. I knew I wasn't starting from the same place as many others. Eventually I realized the competition itself wasn't helping. I started asking, "Is this honest?" and "Did I communicat...

By Matthew Wilson At one point, I imagined the musician I'd eventually become. Around 2015, I began exploring what that might look like. Back then, it was a Korg Kaossilator, a Zoom recorder, and 8-bar loops. Nothing fancy, nothing difficult. I thought my routines would stick, that repetition would create confidence, and that collaborating would be anything but mentally exhausting. I expected familiarity. I expected things to become instinct. I expected songs, workflows, and ideas to stay with me instead of slipping away. Instead, I've found it difficult to retain terminology and maintain a working memory for the things I love. I listen to and make music, talk on my ham radio, and enjoy the technical side of both hobbies. What I wanted out of all of it was consistency. I was often learning and relearning, relying on my notes, forgetting about workflows, and having a hard time recalling things under pressure, knowing all the while that comparison is the thief of joy. Sitting dow...