"I always feel like I can't write a hit, that I'll never write another song again. But when you sit down and the songs come, you feel like a vessel"

A confession of creative insecurity anchors the statement: the fear that the last song might truly be the last. The specter of a “hit” represents the industry’s demand for measurable success and the artist’s own anxiety about relevance. It is both external pressure and private doubt, the sense that inspiration is finite and talent may have already peaked.

Yet the pivot arrives with the simple act of sitting down. There’s a discipline implied, show up, even when it feels pointless. Creativity in this view isn’t a lightning bolt so much as a practice that invites lightning. The moment the songs begin to arrive, the ego steps back. “You feel like a vessel” captures a paradox: the artist is essential and yet not central. She becomes a channel for something larger, memory, culture, mood, the unconscious, or some ineffable current that resists naming.

The tension between striving and surrender is the engine here. Chasing a hit tightens the creative muscles; receptivity loosens them. Control tempts, but relinquishment liberates. When the artist shifts from proving to listening, songs surface as if they were always there, waiting for a conduit. Humility becomes a method: by not insisting on brilliance, one makes room for it.

There’s also a quiet resilience embedded in the cycle. Doubt is not a bug in the creative system; it’s part of the operating manual. The fear returns, the chair beckons, and the process repeats. Over time, trust develops, not in guaranteed outcomes, but in the rhythm of uncertainty. The craft is to build the conditions for grace: habit, patience, curiosity.

Ironically, the work most likely to connect widely often comes from this unforced place. By releasing the goal of a hit and allowing the song to emerge on its own terms, the artist creates the space where authenticity can resonate, and sometimes, that resonance becomes the hit after all.