After deciding I wanted to write a Black Sabbath-style song inspired by the production of the band’s 1970 debut album, I started listening and taking notes. First, I created a short list of what I called “Iommi-isms” (named after the band’s guitarist, Tony Iommi).

My list included: root-6 power chords, trills, the flat 5, C# tuning, and others. I then studied chord progressions and took notes: the intro and interludes use the same riff with slight variations; the verse is a 1-b3; the chorus uses a 1-b2; etc. I also noted tempos, keys, and song structures. At the time, I didn’t realize it, but I was generating a list of options, the first step in the process.

In my first writing session, I found a basic drum beat and set the tempo to 65, the tempo of the song Black Sabbath. I tried a riff consisting of a power chord, its octave, and the key’s flat 5. It sounded way too much like the song Black Sabbath. But instead of trashing the idea, I altered it by slowing the tempo and changing the note order—and it sounded better. I wrote down what I played in a notebook so I could evaluate it later.

Next, I tried another option from my list: the 1 to the flat 3, then the 1 to the flat 2, and so on. Each time, I documented the riff and tried some variations—half notes instead of quarter notes, sixteenth notes instead of eighth notes, hammer-ons, pull-offs, and slides.

After I’d documented some ideas and variations, I opened my DAW. I recorded the riffs—not in any particular order, but to capture them, knowing I could rearrange them later. That’s the beauty of a DAW; it’s like a word processor: once you get your ideas into it, you can move them around, expand on some, and remove others.

My process is slowly developing: listen, take notes, generate a list of options, test them, develop variations, then record them.

But progress is slow, and I still don’t have a strong song idea, lyrics, or a thread to tie it all together. The riff-writing is promising, but I struggled with tools. My M1 Mac mini is underpowered, and I’m still struggling to find a tool combination that keeps the computer and the writing running smoothly. My first instinct was to buy a new computer, but I’m tired of “throwing money at the problem,” and I firmly believe I can achieve what I envision with the tools I already have. The new Mac can wait.

Next week’s goal? Find a thread to tie my ideas together.

On paper, my plan to use my Universal Audio (UA) Apollo, LUNA, and compatible UA plugins made perfect sense. The Apollo’s built-in effects processing would share the processing burden with my aging Mac mini, and all the previous friction I had experienced with the Apollo ecosystem would magically disappear. Of course, this is not what happened. It was all still there—struggling to understand the integration between the Apollo, Console, and LUNA, and an uninspiring guitar tone. My plan did not survive first contact.

The punch in the mouth came when I sat down to write a riff for the project. I quickly realized I’d never intentionally tried to write a riff. All of my previous writing started with an idea. Now I was asking myself to generate an idea on demand. I freaked out. Where do I start? Guitar tone? Drums? Both? And what tools do I use? The Apollo and LUNA were out.

Earlier in the year, during a songwriting sprint I was involved in, I’d used GarageBand to sketch out an idea—not installed. I’d also used Ableton Live Lite for another. Again, not installed. I’d also used my phone’s Voice Memo app, but with no idea to record, Voice Memo was out. I retreated to familiar ground—research.

So started the revolving door of DAWs and amp sims: REAPER and Bogren, Cubase and VST Amp Rack, Logic and Amp Designer, and researching Pro Tools compatibility with the Mac mini. None of them solved the actual problem—how do I write a riff on demand?

This is the question I need to answer next. I need a riff to get the process started. On Monday, with the REAPER and Bogren combination, I did generate an idea, but I didn’t record it. I discarded it as not Sabbath enough. Maybe I should have recorded it and evaluated it later? Maybe that’s the first step—idea collection.

In my initial draft of this post, I blamed myself for not being able to decide on a DAW or other tools, but how can I choose recording tools without something to record? So the next challenge is generating ideas and capturing them for later evaluation. I don’t know what the solution will be, but I’m pretty sure it needs to be as simple and frictionless as possible. This week’s goal: build a riff-writing process.

I need tools like guitars, amps, and effects to play music, and tools like a DAW, amp sims, and effect plugins to write and record music, but before any of that, I need something to play and record—I need songs. Songs started this whole journey, and songs will keep it going. I need to choose tools based on what I’m trying to create.

Last week I joined a community of like-minded recording enthusiasts who support and challenge each other to write and record original music. This month’s challenge is to write and record a song in one month. I’m responding by writing a Black Sabbath-style song inspired by the production process on the first Black Sabbath album. The band tracked the entire album live in the studio to a 4-track tape machine in about 12 hours, with virtually no overdubs. Four tracks—one for drums, one for guitar, one for bass, and one for vocals.

To recreate this, I plan to follow a similar production style: one drum track, one guitar track, one bass track, and one vocal track. For my DAW, I’m going to use Universal Audio’s LUNA because it closely resembles an old-school analog mixing console. For drums, I’m going to use Addictive Drums 2 and the Blue Oyster kit because it’s modeled after a 1960s Ludwig kit. For my guitar track, I’m going to use the UA Plexi Classic amp sim because it’s period-correct. Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi used a Laney amp, but the Marshall should be similar enough to get the feel right. For bass, I’m going to try the Marshall Plexi, but my fallback is an Ampeg SVT. For vocals, I’ll use a Shure SM57 microphone, and for effects processing, I’ll use the UA plugins I have that model gear available around the time this album was made. I’m no longer choosing gear indiscriminately; I’m choosing it based on what I’m trying to create.

When I got back into recording last year, my goal was to re-record the songs on my 2003 demo Feed the Beast. That stalled because I got wrapped up in tools. At the beginning of this year, I wrote three new songs and got stalled on tools again. I had no direction or idea of the sound I was trying to create. With this project, I have that sound in mind, and I’m choosing tools with a purpose. Maybe I was asking myself the wrong questions all along. Instead of asking what DAW I should use or what amp sim sounds best, I should have been asking: what am I trying to create? That question produces much clearer answers.

As a teenager, music became the defining element of my life. If I wasn’t listening to music, I was thinking about it, going to concerts, and talking about whatever band, album, or song felt most alive to me at the time. I dreamed about being in a band. I tried several instruments—drums, guitar, bass, even singing—but I was an undisciplined teen, and my attempts never lasted more than a few days. That changed in 1989, when I heard the opening riff of “High Wire” by Badlands. That day I bought a guitar, an amp, and the current issue of Guitar for the Practicing Musician (which featured Badlands guitarist Jake E. Lee and a transcription of “ High Wire”).

The back of that magazine had an ad for Metal Method guitar lessons. I clearly remember calling the number in the ad from a payphone in the Marine barracks at Quantico, VA, speaking to Doug Marks (Metal Method creator and guitar instructor), and ordering the entire six-VHS lesson series. I locked myself in my barracks room at every available moment, learning all I could from those tapes.

Learning guitar solidified my bond with music, making it inseparable from who I was then and who I am today. I’ve been fortunate to share my passion with others as a guitar teacher, a father (my son loves music and plays guitar), and with my significant other, who shares my love for music and has helped expand my very narrow, questionable taste in obscure rock and metal bands (I still listen to W.A.S.P.). This is who I am. Now I need to figure out how I share this on Substack.

I don’t know what sharing will look like. Right now, finishing three songs I started writing this year is one potential direction, and revamping my approach to guitar playing is the other. The songs need some glue to hold the pieces together. I have the sections. I have the lyrics. I just need to stitch them together. I tend to write what I think are good demos, but I need to learn to turn them into great songs.

My guitar playing needs to evolve. I need to push myself to use different chord forms, progressions, and guitar tones. I want to speak more clearly with my guitar playing—connect with listeners and convey my emotions. It’s time to apply what I learned in Metal Method volume six—Metal Theory.

I hope working on my songwriting and guitar playing will give me something meaningful to share. The other part of the equation is connection. I need connection. I need to share—to both inspire and be inspired.

It’s Friday at 10 a.m., and my self-imposed deadline of today at Noon is looming, and I don’t have an idea, let alone a draft—because I’m stuck. I’m stuck with this Substack, stuck in my career, and stuck in my guitar playing and songwriting.

In March, I started a career alignment project, and today I feel as lost as I did on day one. I’m still clueless about how I return to a career I abandoned more than a decade ago. How do I do that and sustain my current lifestyle? My guitar playing, songwriting, and recording have ground to a halt. It was bad enough when I was playing the same old things in the same old ways, but now I’m not even doing that. Every time I sit down to “play,” I freeze. My mind locks up. I have no idea what to do. The other day was so bad I started asking AI about practice schedules, the best DAWs, songwriting workflows, etc. I’ve been playing guitar since 1989, and I’ve been recording since the 1990s—I have a fucking Berklee certificate in music production—so I should be able to figure this shit out, but I still can’t decide on a workflow or the tools to support it. I’m still chasing the “best” guitar tone, still chasing the perfect DAW, and lately, the ultimate drum plugin. What the fuck am I doing outside of wasting more time and energy? I might as well quit.

After writing My Internal Time and Energy Filter, I thought I’d follow it up with a post about values, so I reviewed a values document I drafted years ago. According to it, my values are passion, connection, (personal) excellence, and benevolence. Right now, I don’t feel very passionate or connected. I certainly don’t feel like I’m excelling at anything, and after looking up the definition of benevolence, I realized I’m not acting benevolently towards myself. Maybe the problem is I’m not living according to my values? While I strive for excellence in my job, I’m certainly not passionate about it, and I definitely don’t feel connected to it. I enjoy writing this Substack, but I’m not connecting to it—maybe because no one is reading a fucking word I write. Maybe I should go back to journaling, because that’s what this Substack has turned into.

I started this Substack to talk about my struggles with choosing a DAW, amp sims, and the associated struggles of recording and releasing original music. I’ve come full circle—I’m squarely back to struggling to choose a DAW, struggling to choose amp sims and drum plugins—struggling to choose anything and struggling to make sense of it all.

I still feel passionate about playing guitar. I still want to get better. But I feel like I’ve lost my connection—connection with others (something I had when I was teaching) and connection to a purpose. Right now, I have no real purpose for my playing. Why am I continuing to sit down at my desk, pick up a guitar, and do nothing constructive with it? I can’t even answer that question. Is it habit? Am I so locked into a routine of playing that I can’t seem to get out of it? I don’t know. I don’t have an answer—I’m sick of not having answers. All I know right now is that this is post 25, and I have no idea if there will be a 26. 25 seems like a good number to stop on. To keep going, I’d need to uncover a serious connection and purpose, but right now I’m fresh out of both.

I was on leave and settling into my new on-base home. I remember waking up that morning, pouring a cup of coffee, sitting down on the couch, and turning on the Today Show. Flight 11 had just crashed into the North Tower, and moments later I watched Flight 175 crash into the South Tower. It seemed unreal.

My first instinct was to call the Marine Detachment at Fort Meade. Surely some action would take place, and I would be needed, but that wasn’t the case. I was told to remain on leave and that they would call me if needed—“Enjoy your time off,” they said. But the image of Flight 175 crashing into the tower was burned into my mind.

I vividly remember not wanting to leave the relative safety of the base. The air felt different. The world felt different. My son was not even a year old yet. I kept thinking, “What was the world going to be like for him?” How would I keep him safe? My first outing off base was to a local mall. I distinctly remember how I felt. I was on guard. I was hypervigilant—paranoid. Everyone seemed like a threat.

That immediate hypervigilance eventually subsided, but the effects of that day never really passed. As military actions escalated, the impact of September 11 continued. As an instructor, I started seeing students I trained returning to DINFOS for advanced training. Many had been deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq. Deployments and combat were no longer hypothetical—they were real, and I was hearing about it firsthand from fellow service members. This made my role as an instructor feel very real—and very important. Students were going to take the skills my fellow instructors and I taught and apply them in the worst possible conditions and under extreme stress. It seemed like an impossible job. How could I prepare them for something I had never done? I had never been deployed or seen combat. I knew nothing about what they might encounter.

I decided to do the only thing I could—listen. I listened to what they had to say. I took their feedback and applied it to what we were teaching. I asked a question: “Does what we teach here at DINFOS prepare you to do your job under real-world conditions?” I used that feedback where I could.

For me, the events of September 11 went far beyond that day. After DINFOS, I received orders to a recruiting command in New England where I served as the Marketing and Public Affairs Chief. I handled difficult, sometimes hostile media queries and interview requests from Boston-based outlets. As more and more service members were dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, public support seemed to be waning. This created a difficult recruiting environment.

I never deployed or served in combat, but I was seeing the effects of the wars firsthand—not just through stories, but through the returning service members themselves. I met a Marine who was so badly burned in an IED explosion that he was barely recognizable. I met others who had lost limbs. It seemed like every Marine I talked to knew someone who had been killed in action, and for a while, I read the daily casualty reports. I couldn’t unsee the burned faces or missing limbs, forget the stories, or escape the weight of those reports. What increasingly troubled me was repeatedly hearing, “Thank you for your service.” I knew the words came from a good place, but after seeing the cost some had paid for their service, “thank you for your service” began to feel painfully inadequate. How could those words possibly account for a life permanently altered—or taken? They couldn’t.

These events, and others, deeply influenced my decision not to reenlist. I had 15 years of service when I left the Marines—only five more to retirement. I still struggle with whether leaving was the right decision. But at the time, I couldn’t escape the questions: Would I make it through those five years? Would I be badly injured—or become a name on one of the casualty reports I had been reading? And what would either outcome mean for my son?

Most days, I face a dilemma—I have multiple things I want to do but limited time and energy to do them. This is especially true on weekdays, when a large chunk of my optimal time and energy is occupied by work. I’m writing this on a Tuesday, and on a typical Tuesday after work, I play guitar from about 4–5 pm, attend the 5:30 pm Muay Thai class, shower, eat dinner, and do my evening routine. Why this order? The Muay Thai decision is easy for two reasons—the class is at 5:30 pm, I can’t change that; the other is that it’s made by an internal filter I’ve been unconsciously using to choose what gets my time and energy.

For me, health is the engine that drives everything. If time and energy are the ultimate resources, sleep, nutrition, and exercise are their fuel. In my mind, without health, nothing is possible. Muay Thai is directly connected to health, so it moves to the top of the list. The “after-health” space is crowded with my passions and relationships.

Passion is where guitar playing lives. It’s where my mind naturally goes. It’s where I get lost. Where time stops, and flow happens. It also requires a lot of mental energy. If I wait until the end of the day to play, it won’t happen. It needs to happen first. Relationships share this space alongside my passions, but it’s an uneasy cohabitation. While I value both equally, the two act like a couple of hungry dogs fighting over a single bowl of food—a slight exaggeration, but I feel like neither is ever satisfied, and trying to satisfy both leaves neither one fulfilled.

Health, passions, and relationships operate within a time and energy constraint directly connected to a long-standing internal struggle I’ve had with work. For as long as I can remember, work has always been a means to an end. That end is money. Without realizing it, I’ve reduced work to something I have to do to make money to support a lifestyle I can only enjoy after my work needs are met.

This creates tension in my life because I also see work as the primary source of the time and energy I lose. I don’t choose to play guitar from 4–5 pm because it’s optimal; I do it because it’s the best time slot among the remaining hours in a given workday. If I had a choice, I’d be playing guitar from 9–11 am, when my energy is at its peak. I don’t have that choice Monday through Friday, so passion and relationships fight for what’s left.

This constant allocation of time and energy is, in itself, exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly evaluating where to spend it. I have to maintain my health, so exercise gets the first chunk. In my mind, it gives back at least a portion of what it takes—I’d have less time and energy if I didn’t maintain my health. Work is a necessity. I need money. I have people I love who depend on me. I’m not going to let them down. The remainder of the time and energy gets parceled out, sometimes by whatever is screaming the loudest in my head—learning or recording a guitar riff that I can’t get out of my head, or simply having a beer outside on a beautiful day enjoying the company of my significant other.

There’s also an internal struggle that goes on daily—am I allocating my time and energy appropriately? I feel selfish when I allocate it to my passions—almost like I’m stealing it from the people I love. I never want someone I love to feel like I’m deciding that playing guitar or creating music is more important than they are. On the flip side, not doing what I love is being untrue to who I am. Most of the time, I feel like I’m not allocating it well; I don’t know how to balance the two, or if there’s even a way to do so. I suspect that there are other pieces of this time and energy puzzle—career alignment as well as core and personal values—that I haven’t quite figured out yet. Tonight, I did the best I could: I played guitar for an hour, went to Muay Thai, showered, ate dinner, meal-prepped, and completed my evening routine. Did I allocate my resources correctly? I don’t know.

In my initial alignment effort, I began analyzing not only the areas of my life but also the actions I was taking within them—specifically, my habits and routines. What I uncovered not only changed my thinking but also sparked a multitude of questions and shifted my plans for what I would write about.

My life has become deeply entrenched in habits and routines. I write or journal most mornings; I exercise five or more times a week; I play or practice guitar most days; and I have a handful of chores that keep me organized and prepared. I’m organized, disciplined, and consistent. All these things are objectively good until they become a trap. But this raises a question: Am I so disciplined and consistent that I’m, at times, inflexible? Am I so locked in that I’ve allowed myself to be locked out of other possibilities? I realize there’s a dichotomy here as well—I could be inconsistent and undisciplined, which would create its own set of problems.

And there’s another question that keeps coming up—why? Why am I doing these activities? What outcome do they tie back to? This, I think, is the real question. Exercise and guitar playing are probably my two most ingrained habits—and they take up a large share of my time outside of work. I know why I exercise and why I choose the exercises I do. I attend Muay Thai classes because I love the community and enjoy learning while exercising. I run because I enjoy it. It’s a great way for me to clear my head, and it’s something I can do with my significant other. I weight train because I know it’s good for me. I don’t particularly enjoy it, but I do it because it directly supports other activities I enjoy.

My guitar playing is a different story. It happens automatically, almost without conscious thought—this is both a good and a bad thing. It’s been on autopilot for so long that I default to familiar patterns. I swear, if I play the riffs to Hair of the Dog, All Right Now, or Breaking the Law one more time, I might go insane. I love music. I love learning, and I love playing guitar, but since I stopped teaching last year, my playing has become so disconnected from any real outcome that my practice routine feels like an ever-escalating game of whack-a-mole, where I bounce from one “great idea” to another faster than a hummingbird flaps its wings! A year ago, I thought the answer was writing original music—it might be, but I also think there’s a layer between that and where I am now.

What is that layer? I wish I had the answer, because if I did, I think I’d feel a whole lot better. I suspect it starts with stepping out of my comfort zone and accepting that, even after 30-plus years of playing and 15 years of teaching, I still have a lot to learn. Or maybe it’s a whole lot simpler—what kind of guitarist do I really want to be, or what role do I want the guitar to play in my life?

I’m not trying to reduce this to the problem of my unstructured guitar practice, because that doesn’t even begin to answer the “What am I doing and why am I doing it?” Because beneath those questions is another: “How am I going to fund this?” I’m not referring to money here, but time and energy.

I was ignoring friction in my finances. I was consistently spending more than I budgeted for, key relationships were not where I wanted or needed them to be, and I was ignoring friction in my creative pursuits as well. In all these areas, I knew there was a problem, but I kept ignoring it—hoping it would go away, hoping it would magically resolve itself—but it didn’t. I knew what I was doing wasn’t producing the results I wanted (or needed), but I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept doing the same things over and over. I was caught in a perpetual loop I couldn’t see, and I didn’t know how to get out of it.

My first response was to blame—usually myself, but sometimes the situation or another party involved. Next, I’d think and/or research the f*%k out of it, and lastly, I’d take some kind of action based on what I thought was logical, without noticing whether it was working. This was my loop: blame, think/research, and take action—hoping it would work, but getting frustrated when it didn’t. No wonder they kept recurring.

I know I need to break the pattern—step outside the loop—I simply can’t continue. No matter how hard I want them to, recurring problems don’t “go away.” They do not magically disappear, and they are not like wine—they do not get better with age. At times, they like to create the illusion that they’ve gone away, lulling me into a false sense of safety, but in truth, they are just hiding, lurking in the shadows, ready to strike when I least expect it.

And they also feel like weight—not heavy like a barbell, but a sneaky weight that slowly builds up over time, settling on my neck and shoulders until one day I wake up to find it has accumulated. And now I’m walking slightly hunched over, and it’s difficult to turn my neck to either side. They are also incredible resource drains, especially attention, drawing it away from other endeavors like an energy vampire.

There’s another piece of this I don’t know how to handle—acceptance. I have an extremely difficult time accepting situations that aren’t the way I want them to be. Acceptance feels like giving up or giving in, and that doesn’t sit well with me. Every time I’ve tried to “accept” something, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that I can’t get rid of no matter how many times I try to rinse it out. I don’t want an acceptable job, acceptable relationships, or an acceptable life—I want them to be meaningful and fulfilling. Acceptable sounds like a sarcastic “fine”—I’m ok, everything is “fine”—it sounds like bullshit.

There’s another form of difficulty surrounding acceptance—accepting that my actions contributed to the situation. At first, I thought of this as a bad thing and wanted to punish and blame myself, but the more I look at it, the more I realize it’s actually a good thing—I’m increasing my self-awareness. I’m developing the ability to recognize my contribution. Recognizing it gives me agency. Perhaps the more difficult thing I’m struggling with is that, no matter how much I want a situation to be a certain way, sometimes it “is what it is” and is beyond my control. This is especially hard when I desperately want something to be a certain way.

The more I think and write about these recurring situations, two words keep popping up—balance and alignment. I don’t think I want balance. While balance seems like a nice-to-have, I don’t think the areas of my life will ever be in perfect balance—each occupying equal slices of the pie. One or maybe two areas will probably always be fighting for the center stage. What I don’t want is for one area to get, or seem, so far out of whack that it steals all my resources from others. I think what I’m looking for is alignment—something along the lines of each area supporting or at least not clashing with the others.

Then little things started happening outside of work: difficulty sleeping, sometimes not sleeping, and the all-too-familiar dread of Monday. Soon, dreading Monday became dreading Tuesday, Wednesday, and so on.

My first solution was to work harder. Maybe it’s me, I thought. Maybe I’m not doing enough. So I worked harder. At the time, I was deeply entrenched in a self-directed personal development program. I searched for answers in books like Extreme Ownership, The Daily Stoic, Getting Things Done, and Eat That Frog. I embraced the concept of taking complete responsibility not just for my actions but for the situation itself. I learned how to separate what I control from what I do not (two simple concepts in theory, but ones I still struggle with today), and how to organize my personal and professional life.

I read every morning before work and listened to similar-themed podcasts during my commute to and from work. Initially, this helped. I felt focused, driven, and empowered. But this soon faded—sometimes theory only takes you so far, especially when it slams hard into reality. I was soon back to dreading work. Even the simplest tasks seemed daunting again, and I was developing an adversarial relationship (in my head) with work. I was deeply unhappy (a very generic feeling that in hindsight, I should have dug into more), and this unhappiness spread into other areas of my life.

My next idea was to do more outside of work—if I can’t find happiness or fulfillment at work, maybe I can find it elsewhere. I doubled down on things I enjoyed—playing and teaching guitar and exercise. I took guitar lessons to improve my skills, I ran a few half marathons, and I became more committed to martial arts by adding Jui-Jitsu to my mixed martial arts training. Again, this worked for a while, but I soon felt like I was living my life outside of work and wasting my time at it—getting through the bad so I could get to the good. And if I’m really honest, these were distractions—even if they were “good” ones.

Maybe I need to take time off, I thought. For a few years, I took two weeks off in the summer. Each time, I told myself I was going to go somewhere quiet and think—do some “soul-searching” and “figure it out.” Sometimes I did the first, but I never did the last. Why did I never do the last? Because it was painful. Because it was scary. Because it meant dredging up and dealing with a lot of “stuff” I really did not want to face, and an honest realization that it wasn’t just my current job—I’d been doing this all of my life.

What is this? It’s two things actually. One, I never stopped to ask a simple question—is this work right for me? Two, I was confusing competence with purpose. Just because I can do something, or I’m good at something, does not mean it’s the right work for me. I’ve been “good” at a number of jobs, but that did not mean they were the right ones for me.

For years I ignored these signs and the implications. At first I thought the highest cost was the wasted time, but it’s far more than time. My work situation consumed my attention. It impacted my mental health, and this spilled into my finances, my relationships, and the activities that normally caused me joy. I spent money on things to make me “feel” better; my relationships (including my relationship with myself) suffered, and I didn’t “feel” like playing guitar or going to martial arts classes.

Then there’s the “real” issue—money. I need money. I have a mortgage, a car payment, and a lifestyle to support. This is where the stress would get so overwhelming that I would have to stop thinking about the whole situation—until it reared its ugly head again—every Sunday. It’s amazing how quickly I can forget about work Friday afternoon, but when Sunday rolls around, it’s right back at the forefront of my mind. Recurring friction doesn’t go away. At best, it takes a break—long enough to fool you into thinking it’s gone—only to slap you in the face when you think you’re safe. I’m finally realizing that I can no longer ignore the friction—it won’t go away, and it won’t fix itself—only I can do that.

Many of my drafts had so many comments and copy-editing marks that it looked like the draft was used to clean up a murder scene. But I wasn’t the only recipient of this treatment. They were handed out equally to all of us writing for The Boot, Parris Island’s weekly newspaper.

Feedback was part of the job. As writers for The Boot, we were required to first have our drafts reviewed by a fellow writer, then by the Press Chief, and finally by Top. I took all the feedback in stride. Parris Island was my first duty assignment as a Combat Correspondent, having recently cross-trained from another job field. Most of my fellow Marines, while junior in rank, had more writing experience than I did. My goal at the time was to learn as much as I could from whomever I could.

Some of my fellow journalists did not take the Master Sergeant’s comments well. Many took them deeply personally. Some were even brought to tears (these are Marines, mind you). Others tried to challenge his comments or defend their work. That never went well. Beneath the crude comments there was often truth (not to mention years of experience)—an AP style reference or a grammar lesson delivered with ease and conviction.

So I quietly rewrote the dog shit lead, the worst sentence he ever tried to read, and untangled countless other sentences, paragraphs, and even entire stories because—I had to, and he was right. I’d try to cram too much into the lead, or I’d bury it. His comments forced me to examine my writing critically and objectively. The more feedback I got from Top and my fellow Marines, the better my writing became. Eventually, Top’s comments became fewer and fewer. But there were never compliments or kudos; the best you could hope for was an OK written on your story.

The more I write, the more I think about not just Top, but all the mentors I was fortunate to encounter as a young writer. Before Top, there was Ms. Jones at the Defense Information School—DINFOS. She taught a grammar refresher that was a prerequisite for the Basic Journalism Course. It was not uncommon for students to take it two or three times before passing. She was tough, but always available to help—if you asked for it.

Before Ms. Jones, there were the teachers I had, and there were the Reader’s Digest Word Power quizzes my grandfather used to do with me—all nudging me down a specific path. And every time I write a lead, I wonder if Top would approve, or if it “sux dog shit.”

The bulk of a previous post, Is Life a Swirling Circle of Friction? Carry Your Cat in Undignified Positions, was written in about an hour. I’d been stressing about the post for a few days because I was two days from my self-imposed deadline and I had no idea what to write about. But when I sat down and just allowed myself to write, the words flowed. I didn’t overthink it. I just poured out my ideas with the intent of editing later. Very different than my usual writing rhythm, where I work on an article piecemeal throughout the week.

In other posts, I’ve mentioned how my Focusrite 4i4 audio interface “melts into the background.” I recently experienced something similar with a trial of Neural DSP’s Archetype Gojira plugin. The Clean amp sounded like a clean Fender amp with little tweaking. When I turned on the OD pedal, I got an overdriven sound—same thing with the DRT pedal. In less than 10 minutes, I had three useable sounds (clean, overdriven, and crunch)—not my typical experience with amp sims. Typically, I’m tweaking and struggling to get a sound that I like.

The same thing has been happening with my guitar playing, for July (and probably August). I’ve permitted myself to play with no specific objective in mind. My only stipulations are to document what I do and have fun. So far, it’s worked. I’ve not felt pressured to finish a song, learn a cover, or do any other task. The only “task” is to play guitar. The only intentions are to have fun and keep some simple notes for possible future reference. I’ve found that ideas seem to happen when I’m not looking for them, and that inspiration sometimes strikes when I let go.

So why do I focus so much on the friction? I think it’s because it feels like an obstacle. It irritates me like a constant yapping dog yelling, “fix me, fix me.” When things “just work” or “melt into the background,” they do so quietly like that perfect employee who shows up on time every day, does their job well, and never complains.

What if friction can be a sign that something isn’t right, and the absence of friction is a signal worth paying attention to? I’m not saying that all friction is bad, a signal that you’re on the wrong path, or that endeavors should be easy. There are times when we have to push through. Especially the initial layer of friction that prevents us from starting. What I am saying is that maybe we need to pay attention to those times when things are frictionless because they are signals too, just much easier to ignore. Maybe I need to create a motivational poster—“No pain, More Gain,” to remind me?

Explore This Theme

This essay is part of an ongoing exploration of friction—not just the obstacles that slow us down, but what we can learn when things suddenly become easier.

• Is Life a Swirling Circle of Friction? Carry Your Cat in Undignified Positions
  Where I first began exploring the idea that friction isn’t always something to eliminate—it can also be valuable information.

• Why Do I Sacrifice the Things That Make Me Feel Good for the Things That Don’t?
  A look at why we often abandon the habits that help us most precisely when life becomes difficult.

I have a short list of weekly non-negotiables. I exercise, I play guitar, and I complete my evening routine. They are non-negotiables because they keep me mentally and physically healthy and on track, and I’m dangerously close to entering a three-day streak of not honoring them.

Monday, I did not exercise or play guitar. I let a major setback in an important project consume my attention. Instead of exercising and/or playing guitar to relieve stress, I overanalyzed the problem and created additional stress. I allowed the problem to consume my time, attention, and energy, and I even let it impact my sleep.

It’s Tuesday after work. I’m tired. The problem is still on my mind, and I have no desire or energy to exercise or play guitar. I want to put them off and do them tomorrow, but I just remembered I planned a get-together with family tomorrow after work, leaving no time for exercise or guitar. Three-day streak, here I come.

When times like this happen (and they happen fairly frequently), I try to follow a principle I adopted from James Clear, author of Atomic Habits: stick to the schedule, but reduce the scope. So tonight’s activities become: a quick, simple meal prep, start writing this essay, play guitar for 20 minutes before dinner, go to the gym and complete a condensed version of my usual resistance workout, and complete my evening routine. All I really need is to signal to myself that I maintained my commitment—I followed through on what I said was important.

The flip side of this is that not doing this creates tension. I’d feel pressured to exercise or play guitar every day for the remainder of the week, allowing no flexibility for unexpected events. In short, I’d feel bad. And there’s also an element of self-trust involved. Following through builds trust; not following through diminishes it. Sometimes, even a 5-minute version is all it takes to maintain that trust.

A deeper question, one I don’t have an answer for, is why the things I know are important are the first things I try to eliminate. Playing guitar and working out make me feel good. Thinking about my problems makes me feel bad. Why not eliminate thinking about my problems? I almost always look back at them and realize the thing I feared never happened. Conversely, the only workouts or guitar practices I ever regret are the ones I don’t complete.

This week has not started out well. Monday, we said our final goodbyes to our cat Jack. It’s Tuesday. I’m at work, having difficulty focusing, and last week’s friction points have carried over into this week with some additional weight. But life goes on. I have to go to work. There is no pet bereavement policy (though there should be). I still need to make progress on my project. I still need to write a Substack post. And I have to be mindful of my mental and physical health. When things get hard, I’ve learned the best thing to do is to keep it light. Not light in levity, but in mental load, so I’m going to heavily rely on my routines and habits and default to what I call autopilot mode because I know I won’t have the capacity for much else.

Estimating cash-in and cash-out, billing, and calling customers about past-due invoices is more than my mind can handle, so at work, I’m going to lean into my systems and a weekly checklist I’ve perfected over the years. The systems and checklist remind me step by step how to do these things. I’ve done these things so many times; all I have to do is check the boxes that I did them. I know that if I follow my systems and checklist, as I have every week for years, I’ll be ok.

My project and this Substack rely heavily on writing. Thankfully, the project involves documenting what I’ve been doing for years, so autopilot works great here. For Substack, I’ll do what I seem to do best: write about what I’m experiencing and hope it lands, connects with others, and helps someone. I typically write in the morning at home and during my lunch at work. This should allow me to make progress. If by Friday I’m further along than where I was on Monday, I’ll be ok.

My guitar playing is a staple of my mental health. It’s where I escape and get lost for an hour or so most days. Nothing on my mind except playing. If I can just show up and play for a few nights this week, I’ll be ok. Maybe I’ll play Bang A Gong, Hair of the Dog, All Right Now, and Living After Midnight for the 10,000th time—it doesn’t matter what I play as long as I show up. My workout schedule during a normal week is pretty rigid. This week, I just need to move, even if it’s walking at work and/or around my condo complex at home. I need to get outside and move my body.

I need to recognize that this week will be different than most and I have to set my expectations accordingly. I also need to recognize this may spill into the following week, but (and this is a big but), I can’t let this relaxed schedule become the norm. And it easily can. There is a fine line between acknowledging circumstances and making excuses. I’ve blurred the lines before. To prevent the slip into excuses, I track my actions. I use a small notebook to log the events of the day. A simple record that says I showed up, with maybe a few notes. Yesterday, an entry said: Vet appointment 3:30 pm, feeling very sad. Today, a reminder to make progress on my project and start writing a Substack post. Later today or tomorrow morning, I’ll review the notebook. I’ll check off what I got done, brain dump what’s on my mind, and repeat the process.

I started this Substack to talk about the friction I was experiencing writing and recording original music. I’m now realizing that the topic is too narrow; it’s too limiting. And all forms of creativity involve friction. I’m experiencing it right now: what do I write about if I’m not writing about creating music? For starters, I could write about the friction I’m wholeheartedly living and experiencing every night when I sit in my chair, stare at the guitar on the stand next to my desk, and my mind starts rapid-firing questions like an angry interrogator.

Is the cat ok? Did he eat? He has to eat so that we can give him his insulin. What am I going to play or practice on the guitar? I have to play; if I don’t, I’ll lose my ability to play, and when I go to write that next song, I won’t have the technique I need to get my idea across.

Then my mind starts cataloging and inventorying everything: Did I answer that email? Did I lock the office door? Do I need to drive to work to check? What if this project of mine fails? What if all the work I’m doing is for nothing? What am I going to do when my cat dies? The questions seem never to end.

For the guitar playing, I do what I’ve always done. I pick up the guitar, tune it, dial in a cool tone, and jam along to a song I love. Last night it was Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy using a trial of Neural DSP’s Archetype Gojira plugin. As for the writing, I’m doing that now. I’m pretending I’m working, pouring my thoughts into IA Writer, hoping that whatever I write reaches another human being and somehow helps.

As for the cat, I’ll do what I’ve done every day he’s been in my life: pick him up, carry him around the house in undignified positions (He loves it; he purrs his face off. It’s like tonic immobilization with a shark), talk to him, and make up songs about him all sung to the tune of Ozzy Osbourne’s Mr. Crowley. Later, I’ll curse him for scratching something he shouldn’t, attacking one of his kitty sisters and annoying the hell out of us. I’ll do my best to enjoy the time I have left with him.

I bought my Universal Audio Apollo because I saw it on the desks of every YouTuber I was following, and I wanted a “better” audio interface than the Focusrite 2i2 I was using. After two years of trying to make it work. I put it neatly back in its box and put it on a shelf, it created so much friction for me that any amount of “better” it might have produced was simply not worth the cost of time, energy and money (man, those UA plugins are expensive!). I bought my Audient ID4 to replace the Apollo I wasn’t using (my Focusrite went to a friend), but it wasn’t as user-friendly as I’d hoped, so I replaced it with a Focusrite 4i4. It’s been on my desk ever since.

When I reviewed the applications folder on my computer, I had six DAWs installed (only six because I recently uninstalled two). Why? Because I was searching for the best DAW (just like I was searching for a “better” interface). As for the amp sims installed on my computer? A literal who’s who of every amp sim on the market-all to find the best Fender Tweed, Vox, and Marshall sound I could find. Which, if I were really honest with myself, could be summed up as a clean sound, an edge-of-break-up sound, and an overdriven sound. All is possible with any of the amp sims, but probably achievable with a single-amp plugin that includes pre- and post-effects, like the Neural DSP Imperial Tone King or Soldano SLO-100 X. One or two plugins and done. No endless tone surfing or choice overwhelm. And the kicker? I already knew this. It’s the same philosophy behind my practice rig-a clean amp and pedals.

Sometimes the pursuit of better or best is the enemy of good enough. My current computer is good enough; my Focusrite 4i4 is good enough; my Audio-Technica ATH-M20x headphones are good enough, and if I had to do this all over again, here’s what I’d do. Assuming a clean slate, I’d buy an Apple computer, a Focusrite interface, Logic Pro and a mid-tier set of headphones. Based on my experience, if I wanted to upgrade this, I’d add the Neural DSP Tone King Imperial MKII and the Soldano SLO-100 X amp sims, along with a good set of monitors like the Kali Audio LP-6 V2. With either setup, I could make good music, and maybe more importantly, I could do so with less friction and wasted resources.

Last week, I watched an episode of Gibson TV’s Riff Lords. The featured guitarist was Pepper Keenan of the bands Corrosion of Conformity and Down. In the video, Pepper was playing and teaching riffs from both bands. Almost immediately, I was sucked in. The riffs were cool; his playing was tight (it grooved without requiring a drummer); the guitar tone was perfect (kind of a modern Black Sabbath tone, distorted but not overly so, thick with gobs of mid-range). In between riff demos, Pepper told stories about how the riffs came to be. The stories were delivered with humility and a slight southern drawl that made me feel like I was sitting in the room with him.

I immediately started taking notes: check out the songs “Albatross” and “Clean My Wounds,” the first Down album, “Killer Riffs,” and Pepper using an Orange amp (try Helix Native’s Orange model), etc. As soon as I was able to, I grabbed a guitar, tuned it to D standard, created a track in REAPER, inserted Helix Native, and began dialing in the Mandarin Rocker model. I was getting close to the tone I wanted, but not close enough. I was monitoring through headphones, so I switched to monitors, which were slightly better. Then it hit me: I need an amp, but I don’t have one (technically, I do, a Fender ‘65 Princeton Reverb Reissue, but it’s a clean-only amp and too loud for the house). The thought persisted. I need an amp. Maybe an amp I can use with my HX Stomp or my TONEX pedal. I need a FRFR cabinet, yeah, that’s what I need.

While I was able to get through the session without going down a FRFR-research rabbit hole, I couldn’t seem to get the thought out of my head that I needed an amp. Over the course of a few days, I did research FRFR cabs, but I also did something I talked about in last week’s post: thinking and asking questions. What about the Gibson TV episode inspired me so? Why do I think I need an amp? What need will it fill, and why do I think it will fill it? Then I thought about why I bought the Princeton-to use as a pedal platform, and other than the volume issue, I liked the tones I got with pedals. Then I realized that maybe the Pepper Keenan video was not about any one thing, but a display of multiple: great guitar playing, great groove, and great guitar tone, the core elements that inspire me to make music.

This line of thinking prompted me to review my M.A.P. creation notes. Groove was a common thread in the music that inspired me. Most of the music that inspired me made me move. The riffs in those songs provided a groove and a feel, with the guitar tone acting as a co-conspirator, working in perfect concert to drive the song along. The Pepper Keenan video had all the elements that inspire me. Then I thought, is my current setup (guitar, audio interface, amp sim, monitors) not inspiring me? Am I seeing Pepper’s setup and envying it? Is this what I’m trying to do with the FRFR? Am I trying to create a home setup to jam along with my favorite songs, write riffs, and whatever else comes along?

I think it is, but instead of buying an FRFR cabinet to scratch the itch, I’m going to keep digging a little deeper into the why, so I can uncover the actual what. I also now know that part of that decision is inspiring tone and groove. I may not have the complete answer yet, but I’m closer, and I didn’t exhaust valuable resources on a solution for a need and motivation that is not defined.

I’ve read a lot of personal development books, and one of the things I’ve learned from them is that sometimes you have to stop doing, start thinking, and ask better questions. The first question that popped into my head was Brian Tracy’s zero-based thinking: “Knowing what I know now, if I wasn’t already doing this, would I start it up again today?” This got the ball rolling, and it led to another question: “What am I actually trying to achieve?” Then another, “Why am I trying to achieve it?”

When I answered the first question, I didn’t accept the surface-level answers. I dug deeper. I kept asking why. After several responses, I landed on a working definition: My primary aspiration is to create original music that conveys emotion. I’d like the music I create to evoke in others the same feelings that my favorite music evokes in me. How did I arrive at this? The music that resonates with me does so because it evokes an emotional response. It might make me feel energized, inspired, or even sad. Then I arrived at the motivation behind my aspiration: “so that I can connect with others”. Because, for me, music has always been about connection. My favorite songs connect with me; hopefully my songs can connect with others. Finally, I identified the guitar as my primary tool for doing this. This aspiration and motivation gave me direction. Now all I needed was a plan.

To develop my plan, I asked myself, “How do I do this? How do I create original music that conveys emotion so that I can connect with others?” Again, just like I did for the aspiration and the motivation, I kept digging until I uncovered something meaningful. I landed on the following: I will study songs that spark emotion in me to better understand how and why they do so. This sparked a realization - I’d been doing this since I started playing guitar in 1989. A guitar riff inspired me to want to learn to play guitar. I continued to learn songs that inspired me. As a guitar teacher, I based all of my lessons around teaching students songs that inspired them. And when I started recording my own music, I subconsciously applied the same standard: does the music I’m creating inspire or evoke an emotion in me? If so, I keep it; if not, I toss it.

Not only was this process eye-opening, but I started to see I could use it as a filter for activities, purchases, and decisions. Then I started to also see it as a map. Then the acronym came: M.A.P. (motivation, aspiration, plan).

A good map does more than provide direction; it also identifies hazards along the way-obstacles that might prevent your arrival at your destination. So I started thinking about my obstacles, the things that have derailed my progress, and I named them.

I saw my curiosity as both a strength and a weakness, so I decided it should have its own designated time and not interfere with creative sessions. No more rabbit holes and lost time because I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. I realized that open loops, unresolved questions about gear, software, workflow, and systems, were hijacking my creative time, so I decided to capture them and address them outside of my creative time. And lastly, I acknowledged that I have a tendency to over-optimize systems that are already working by trying to make them “better,” which leads to overcomplication. It’s hard to avoid obstacles you can’t see-making a M.A.P. brings them to light clearly.

Identifying my obstacles had an immediate payoff. It allowed me to see them clearly and identify them in real time. When I feel the pull of curiosity, I see it for what it is. If I have unresolved questions or start to overcomplicate things, I name them, and more importantly, I can stop the activity before getting derailed.

All my favorite records (Aerosmith’s Rocks, Bad Company, The Cult’s Electric, and countless others) had a similar guitar tone, some type of Marshall amplifier (Plexi- or JCM800-style). And almost every amp sim, whether native or third-party, has a Marshall simulation. In hindsight, what’s even more frustrating is that they all sound very similar. Yes, some are slightly better-sounding and/or require less tweaking to sound good, but when integrated into a mix, they are hard to distinguish from each other.

To prove this, I recorded a guitar part and used all the Marshall amp sims I had (Amplitube, TONEX, Helix Native, UA ’68 Lion, and a few others). This test was eye-opening. They were all virtually identical. All I really needed to do was pick one ecosystem and stick with it. And if I were truly honest with myself, a plugin like Helix Native has every amp I could ever need, and the tones are good, very good. Does this mean I’ll never use another amp sim? Probably not, but it has provided a sanity check.

Here’s an example: Last week, I downloaded a trial of Brainworx’s Friedman BE-100. I instantly loved it. In my opinion, Friedman makes a better Marshall than Marshall. Then an idea popped into my head (this is how I get into trouble!), Does Helix have a Friedman BE-100? It does. I did the same test I described earlier. I was able to replicate the same tone in Helix. This saved me $30. I do prefer the interface in the Brainworx plugin. I like amp sims where I can turn knobs like on a physical amp, but it’s not worth $30. Because it’s not just $30; it’s $30 here, $40 there, and $79 over there.

Making music is hard. I still don’t quite understand EQ, compression, or mastering, but I’m really clear on some things, and one of those is the guitar sounds I like. I made choosing an amp sim way harder and more expensive than it needed to be. My ears and years of listening to music were telling me the answer the whole time, but like usual, I wasn’t listening.

The headaches started immediately. Installation on an Apple Silicon computer required some shenanigans of rebooting and changing security settings that took more than an hour. Then the real fun began when I realized everything had to run through the UA Console app first, and the included plugins only included one guitar amp sim (a Marshall Plexi) that sounded horrible. Then the real shock came when I logged into the Universal Audio store and saw how expensive the Apollo amp sims were-$100, for this one, $150 for that one.

Despite hours of trying, I couldn’t get a guitar sound I liked with the Apollo. Truth be told, I just didn’t understand it, and each time I tried to, I got frustrated. I ran into several issues with it and Zoom that were distracting during teaching, so I reverted to the Focusrite. The Focusrite’s simplicity, ease of use, and low friction were welcoming.

I’d like to say that I just stayed with the Focusrite, having learned my lesson about “better”, but I did not. For some reason, loopback recording became a need of mine (probably something I read, then decided I “needed”), so the shopping began. I bought a refurbished Focusrite 4i4 gen3, returned it; a MOTU M-2, returned it; an Audient ID4 MKII (I still have it); and finally a Focusrite 4i4 Gen 4 (I still own it).

I eventually figured out the Apollo, thanks to an amazing tutorial from Why Logic Pro Rules and the purchase of an Apollo Console pack from Steve Kinney. These two resources together helped me understand the Apollo and Console, and I almost committed to it. I purchased the Apollo Solo I mentioned earlier so I could use it with my laptop and use the Twin X with my desktop (the room I regularly use is not heated, so when wintertime rolled around, I needed a mobile option). The Solo’s processing power was very limited, and I ran into the same conundrum of overpriced plugins and frustrations with the Console app, and I almost felt forced into using LUNA, which I did not love. Final conclusion: the UA Apollo ecosystem is very good. I was able to get some very inspiring guitar tones, but it’s also expensive, and in the end, I decided it’s just not for me. Anyone want a great deal on an Apollo?

I’ve settled on the Focusrite 4i4 4th gen, not because it’s the best audio interface I own, but because it’s frictionless. Like the 2i2 before it, it simply melts into the background, and I forget it’s even there. And sometimes that’s exactly what better looks like.