I made music before I ever started writing professionally. My passion for beatmaking initially inspired me to move from DC to New York. But I didn’t get far. I made plenty of beats that languished on numerous hard drives because I had no social connections to push them anywhere. Then, somewhere along the NYC journey, I gained online notoriety as a writer, quit my job, and threw myself on an exciting, randomly winding journalism path. Every next big step came from another editor emailing me or DMing me with an opportunity. It all felt fated; why would I divert the path?
In a couple of years, I went from writing for Tumblr to writing for the world, winning awards and helping shape cultural discourse. Writing became the only creative form I was passionate about. I’d occasionally have a day, or even a weekend, when I was inspired to make beats. But at that point, it was just casual.
As a staff writer, I was consumed by the reporting assignment at the top of my queue. Like most reporters, I began to observe the news cycle as a storm cloud ready to blast lightning anywhere, at any time. In short, I had no time for anything but writing, then decompressing to recharge and write some more. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I keep “beatmaker” in my social bios to this day; labeling myself a producer would be putting too much on it, for now. People would occasionally ask me about music. Each time, it felt like they asked about a college friend I hadn’t talked to in a while. “Oh yeah,” I’d say. “I make beats here and there. Not as much anymore; I be so busy with writing. But I need to make more time.” I knew I sounded as irresolute as the person who talked about needing to hit the gym or stop smoking. Embracing the need wasn’t imminent, but it sounded good.
I bought MPC and SP-404 audio hardware with a work bonus in 2019; I never really played on them. I was used to software. The hardware interface was a little confusing, and it threw me out of the creative groove. When I had a two-bedroom apartment, I bought a PC that I told myself I’d use strictly for making beats. Again, I rarely used it.
But as a music writer, I’m immersed in creativity every day.
Being in studio spaces with artists is a rush, because it feels like a whiff of my old routine. Talking with musicians is always a breeze. Few of them realize someone with a deeper musical inclination is interviewing them. I like to use inside baseball terminology with producers, and ask them nerdy questions, more for myself than for readers. Sometimes I’d tell on myself in my question preface: “Yeah, I make beats sometimes or whatever, so I know about this or that technique you used.”
Eventually, I realized many fellow music writers made music; they just wouldn’t publicize it. The popularity of the peers who shared this with me was pleasantly surprising. Before those conversations, being a prominent music writer with any inkling of musical aspirations felt like a conflict of interest; artists want coverage from me, not to collaborate. But writers more popular than me mined those same urges and qualms. The thought of doing both writing and beatmaking recurred, like a go-to daydream. “Maybe I could find a way to merge the two fields,” I’d think.
And then, I was laid off from my job. The idyllic writer’s journey I was used to shifted abruptly from the industry’s apex to the Substack slums. Once I learned that someone could be one of the best in the world at their job, well-paid, and all that got them was a target on their back when layoffs came, I became jaded with journalism. I realized that it was another extension of the music business, not the public service I’ve always understood it to be. Days after I got laid off, the hard drive on my music computer conked out. I couldn’t even turn to beats for solace. It felt like the universe telling me not to take music for granted.
My 2026 has oscillated between wanting to push full steam with indie journalism and desiring to disappear into some quiet pasture, just making beats with no expectations. “Maybe I took the wrong path,” I’d think. It’s a masochistic thought process, I know. But life as a freelance writer gets even more intense than staff work. As the adage goes, you eat what you kill. Even more of my time than before is devoted to writing and trying to find opportunities to write. It still felt like I was betraying part of myself, though.
I’ve probably seen hundreds of quotes, tweets, and graphic cards urging people to pursue their inner artistry. Artists and writers theorize that if you don’t create, you’ll always feel frustrated and bored. You’ll feel like something’s missing that no ephemeral thrill could fill. I interviewed a rapper once about knowing when to transmute confusion, loneliness, and despair into creativity. The exchange always stuck with me. I’ve recently realized that part of the angst and listlessness I feel in this new chapter is tied to not fully fulfilling myself.
Part of my reticence to jump back into beatmaking is being a creature of habit. When something’s out of my day-to-day routine, I don’t easily work it back in. But once I started dreaming about some of the most layered beats I’ve ever heard, I’d wake up inspired. “If I can dream it,” I’d think, “I can create it.” And then I recently watched a clip of Busta Rhymes talking about how, 30 years later, he’s still motivated to create:
“I love this shit, it’s as simple as that. I really love this gift that we was blessed with, and I don’t play with it…it’s bugged to me if a (person) identifies with a gift they was blessed with and they don’t exploit it to show their appreciation. That’s weird to me…I think the way to show God that you’re grateful for that shit is to maximize the ability that you have, once you figure out what the gift is.”
Plenty of people openly wish for creative inclination; who am I to waste mine? I had to force space for music. I had to face that need. This week I sat down, fired up the PC (with a new hard drive!), and jumped on FL. After 20 years of using the software, navigating is second nature. But that session confronted me with one of my innermost qualms about returning: that I’d jump back in there and it’d be trash.
The inner creative spark always came from having a sample I wanted to flip, or a melody I wanted to pursue. Or just knowing I could lay some drums down and the rest would happen organically. But this night, nothing hit. I turned off the program at about 2 am, disappointed that I had no beat frames to build on.
The next day, I realized that after years of not doing it routinely, I couldn’t expect to jump right back into the heat of the craft. I gave myself grace. Another maxim people often parrot is that when exploring (or re-exploring) a creative endeavor, the results aren’t guaranteed to be good right off the bat. But that can’t deter you. Clichés are clichés for a reason: the journey is truly the destination in art.
I couldn’t internalize the bad session and let it keep me away from going at it again. The next night, I got back on FL after writing. Things went a little smoother. My impromptu choices worked more than they didn’t. I got reacquainted with that familiar, contagious feeling of being a natural vessel for creativity. It felt less scientific, more cathartic. The journey was gratifying because I forgot how much I missed it, and it was more rewarding than the night before. It was like that old college friend I reacquainted with finally felt comfortable enough to talk about something real again. I’m excited to see where the creative conversation goes from here.