I live in Toronto, Canada. It’s pretty hot in the summer, pretty cold in the winter, and an amazing city year-round. In that cold winter it snows, not as much as other places, but the sky does open up for us once in a while.

On those days when the streets are ankle-deep in snow or slush, the first step out the door is tentative. It’s slow trudging through the snow, and you’re not 100% sure if there’s ice underneath. Occasionally you slip, and hopefully don’t get too banged up.

But as the day goes on, people get up and step out of their homes. They walk to the streetcar stop or the grocery store or bring their kids to daycare. Some of that snow gets flattened. Not on every street, mind you, but on the main paths. Walking gets easier there. The chance of slipping drops.

Something else happens too. As you walk, you start changing your route. You might look over at the other side of the road, see its well-trodden paths, and cross. It’s an easier walk over there, after all.

Habit’s a bit like that.

Once we’ve walked the same route enough times, we track a path through it. It becomes easier to walk there. We barely need to look where we’re going! It can be comforting if it’s our favourite path, but it can also be a bit mindless. We can find ourselves taking these less enjoyable paths, just because they’re easier. Like getting on the same packed subway or highway day after day to commute to work. Familiar, sure, but not exactly inspiring.

When it comes to songwriting, habit can be great. It can be your best friend. There are all sorts of obstacles that come up in songwriting, just like that ankle-deep snow:

• Finding a bunch of chords that sound great together, but then getting stuck and frustrated.
• Getting a verse together that sounds fantastic. Then wrestling with a chorus that, if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t really like…
• Finishing a song only to come back to it the next day and say: “You know what, there’s no magic here. Let’s start over.”

But like that ankle-deep snow, after you work through the tough stuff a few times it gets easier. Better. Maybe more enjoyable too.

But habit can also be like that mindless commute.

Let’s say you write your first song using a progression you absolutely love, say I vi V. Then you add a melody that just fits perfectly. You’ve even been working on a new guitar technique lately, and it makes the solo really pop. It’s exciting! Everything’s coming together and you love the way it all sounds.

Then you write your next song. You find yourself writing something with a I vi V progression again (hey, it worked last time!) but maybe mixing up the rhythm. Your melody is also a little similar, though you didn’t notice it at first. You’ve been playing that old guitar solo a bunch, so the new one isn’t too far off… maybe that’s your style? You stick to that beaten-down path, the one that’s now familiar. The writing was easier this time, but was the song better?

It’s at that point you need to ask yourself a question. Do you like this new song? Does it excite you? And then answer honestly: Who was in the driver’s seat for that song? Was it inspiration? Was it you? Or did habit start grabbing at the steering wheel. I think we all know that artist or band who started sounding less and less inspired in their later albums—and the others who chose a different path. Because once you let habit start steering—once you stop taking that path less travelled—think about who ends up in the back seat.

You can choose a different path too.

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