A reflection on what I hear when I write.
It depends on the work. And, if I’m honest, the version of me doing it.
If I’m handling logistics—email chains, platform fixes, all the invisible gears of the MKU—I’ll throw on a podcast or an audiobook. Something with steady cadence. Human voices filling the space so I don’t have to. It’s functional. Grounding. A distraction that still lets me move forward.
But when I’m writing—when the words actually matter—I need music. Not background noise. Not ambiance. Music that moves something.
There’s a point I hit when the doubt creeps in, when the old story shows up: You’re not good enough. You’re not ready. You don’t have anything left to say. And that’s when I reach for the headphones.
Because music gets me past that wall. Certain songs act like a key—one turn, and I’m not in the room anymore. I’m somewhere quieter, older, deeper. Below the part of me that edits, or performs, or tries to be clever. Music lets me slip under all that. It gives me access to the version of me that remembers things I haven’t lived yet. The version that trusts.
Writing becomes less about expression and more about excavation. I’m not inventing—I’m uncovering. Music helps me remember where to dig.
And when it’s really working—when the song hits just right—I’m not working at all. I’m listening.
To the story.
To myself.
To whatever’s been waiting.
So what do I listen to while I work?
Whatever helps me get out of my own way.
Memoirs of Madness 