How I Write Songs (and NDM)
People often ask how I write songs — like there’s a formula, some secret order of steps that makes it work every time. But the truth is, the process keeps changing as I do.
When I was younger, back in Watseka, songwriting was private — almost secret. I’d write in old school notebooks, pages full of half rhymes and lines I’d never say out loud. I didn’t know what I was doing, just that it made me feel less alone. There was this gravel road behind Nana and Pop’s house where I used to walk with my guitar, humming whatever fell out. The songs from Burning Barns & Bridges mostly started like that — quiet, raw, full of wide skies and empty space. Just me, my voice, and a cheap acoustic that buzzed if you hit the strings too hard.
Back then, I’d finish a song in one sitting. It was like emotional first aid — you didn’t go back and edit your feelings. The melodies were rough, the lyrics were sometimes too on the nose, but they were honest.
Things started changing after I moved to Chicago. I had this huge creative surge — all this city noise, all these people, all this energy. But I didn’t know how to capture it yet. That’s when I met NDM.
He was playing bass in another band that opened for me at a dive bar in Logan Square. After the show, he came up to me and said, “You’ve got something real in your writing — you just need someone to make it hit harder.” At first, I didn’t know what to make of that. But we grabbed coffee a few days later, and by the end of it, we’d already written half a song on napkins and voice memos.
NDM is this mysterious, quiet guy who somehow hears sound like color — he’ll listen to a lyric and say, “this one’s blue, this one’s gold.” I still don’t know exactly what that means, but he’s usually right.
Working with him changed everything. He helped me realize that songs can evolve — that the raw idea isn’t ruined by production, it’s deepened. With From Bleachers To Breezy and The Side Eye EP, we started blending my Americana roots with his alt-pop instincts. I’d bring a guitar line or a lyric, and he’d build a world around it — drum loops, synth pads, tiny ear candy details I never would’ve thought of.
We write like we’re in conversation. I’ll say, “This song feels like sitting in the bleachers watching someone who doesn’t see you,” and he’ll build a beat that sounds like the hum of stadium lights. Sometimes I’ll show up with just a title — “Delulu” or “Noise Complaint” — and he’ll grin and say, “Okay, let’s make it sound like that word feels.”
What’s wild is how different the process feels now. It’s slower, more deliberate, but somehow freer too. I don’t write to fix feelings anymore — I write to understand them. And with NDM, there’s space to mess up, to explore. We’ll spend hours chasing a single sound or a better phrasing, then scrap it all the next day and start again.
Some nights, we’ll just sit in silence, looping a verse until one of us says, “yeah, that’s it.” There’s trust there — enough that I can sing something vulnerable and know he’ll catch it, not smooth it over. That’s how “A Voicemail From The Past” happened — one take, 2 a.m., voice cracking, and him whispering, “Don’t redo it. That’s the truth right there.”
So yeah, the process has changed — from whispering into notebooks to building whole sonic worlds. But the heart’s the same. I still start with an image, still write from that ache to make sense of things. The difference now is that I’m not doing it alone.
And as for NDM — he’ll probably hate that I’m even writing about him, but every artist needs someone who helps them turn noise into music. He’s that for me.
