Musician Leyla Ebrahimi on giving in to the daydream

What is your earliest memory of being creative? Can you describe the feeling?

The first time I remember being creative is when I was young and would play outside by myself all day. I did not need anything besides water and mud—I had a mud business, a bakery, with customers. It felt invigorating, this ultimate sense of purpose. I think that was a function of one, not having a lot of friends, and two, loving being alone, but imagining that I wasn’t. Those times were very intimate and special, for me, by me, from me. For me, being creative is still a pretty solitary activity.

When did you know you wanted to pursue an artistic path?

I never identified as a musician, even though I wrote songs and played them on my keyboard. I did musicals and had a theater camp stint, but I didn’t like participating in group ensembles. I fought being involved in music until I joined acapella groups, which I was bad at because again, I didn’t have the mentality that each part is important. All of this is so funny because now all I want is to have a full band on stage with me. Then in college I joined a seven-piece Pixies cover band and we accidentally got pretty good. When we played shows, I had a taste of that feeling from my childhood, only now I wasn’t alone.

Did you decide to become an artist, or did it happen to you?

About a year and a half ago was the first time I gave in to the dream of committing my whole self to music, even if it was never going to be full-time. Just saying out loud, “I am a musician and this is my music. I work another job, but this is what I do.” That was hard; it felt embarrassing. In my experience, I have to fake it ‘til I make it, so I just kept saying it until I believed it myself. It was a muscle I had to exercise.

The night I put out my first demo was just a compulsion. That was something greater than me, for sure. I’m haunted by the idea that I’ll never hear all the great music that exists—knowing there’s a song that would make me levitate and I might not ever find it. Maybe releasing that demo was me turning the fear back on myself like, “I can make something that creates that same feeling for someone else.” When I woke up the next day it had like 30 streams, and I could not believe people had listened to it.

How often do you reflect on your previous work?

I have an unhealthy case of demo-itis—getting really attached to a demo version of a song, knowing it won’t be the final cut—that I bring into the studio with me. I exhaust every demo before it’s released, so once I make a song and put it out, I’m on to the next thing. At one point I wanted to wipe all my earlier songs off of the internet, but I do like to hear how the sound evolves. I think it is important to reflect and I should do it more, but my mind is usually focused on what’s right now or what’s next.

Where do you do your work? What do you need in order to do your work?

I can’t write when anyone tells me to write—I can’t even write when I tell me to write. I have to be struck by something, and inspiration strikes at the most inconvenient moments—I have to sing the idea into my phone as a voice memo, or I’ve been with other people and had to go into another room and write an idea down, because I know it will leave if I don’t. Usually when that happens, I will write almost the whole song then and there. Of course I go back and make adjustments, but the body of a song is pretty immediate. So I do my work everywhere—all I need is my notebook or my Notes app, voice memos, and a lot of caffeine.

If I am bringing a new idea into the studio, I take the morning to refine the idea that I have. I’m building a sketch. When I arrive, I present the premise to [my producer] Shane: what it’s about, who it’s about. Because I write on piano, we map it out on synth first, then we track the other instruments and a scratch vocal. Shane will bounce out a demo and I will listen over and over and come in the next day with more harmonies, or we’ll write more.

The day is over when we start to fade and it’s no longer productive. Sometimes I feel so close to something really special and don’t quite get there, which is my least favorite feeling, but then I go home and it strikes me and I have it for the next day. At the end of the day, I’m not doing a good job if I’m not having fun. I can hear in the music when I’m not having fun, when the work isn’t resonating with me.

Is there a creative habit you have to fight against? How do you fight it?

I prolong the songmaking process as long as possible and have to be told when to stop adding to a song. Another one is that I like for my music to nod to itself through similar melodies and progressions, but I can get too caught up in that and then become tired of my own writing. Sometimes less is more, and a piece of art can just be its own moment. When that happens I feel really far removed from the work and I have to walk away from it—but that’s a luxury I don’t get all the time. I try to challenge myself to seek out the new and ask my collaborators for their input. It’s really helpful to have someone tell me, “You made your point, save something for the next one.”

What is your relationship to feedback? How do you know whose feedback to trust?

I’m so sensitive after I spend hours and hours working on something. But usually the next day I’m ready to get pummeled with feedback. I like it and I think I take it on the chin. A lot of the best parts of my songs have come from people pushing me. Even just hearing someone say, “You can make this better” is so helpful to me.

I can tell when my solo ideation on something is done and now it needs collaboration, and I also trust that my collaborators will listen to me if I push back. It’s incredibly intimate and requires a lot of honesty. Sometimes, when a stubborn wall goes up, I have to listen to that—to myself—too. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from Shane is that we are making very complicated art and that the process is non-linear, so it’s okay to face frustrations or complications. I also send my demos to my parents, but I have to wait at least a day, because they will send back three paragraphs of edits and getting that right away is too much for me. [laughs]

How did you learn to trust your intuition as an artist?

I have no technical skill or knowledge; I don’t read music and I know little to no music theory. I can see where I fall short without those things, but I also see the ways in which it’s okay not to have them. I am lucky to work with people who are open to sharing that knowledge with me, but aside from that, I never have to think too hard about what I’m writing. It’s all intuition, which is funny because I don’t trust my intuition in any other area of my life. [laughs] But I have always had the ability to hear something and know what needs to be added or taken away. It’s one of the only things that I can do. I also am always willing to try something and if it doesn’t work out say, “Okay, that was a bad call.”

How do you nourish your creativity? What are your most valuable resources?

I’m constantly tinkering around with my instruments, just having fun. When I’m not doing that, I’m listening to music. To feel fulfilled creatively when I am not making something of my own, I have to engage with other people’s work, which is where the majority of my inspiration comes from. Everything that exists now was preceded by something else.

Do you have any rituals?

The night before a song comes out, I walk around the track at the park starting at 11 p.m. Then at around 11:58, I lay on a picnic table and listen to the song as it drops. Before I perform, I get so nervous I feel sick, so I have to go into a room alone and talk to myself. When I’m out there I feel great, but the moments leading up give me the worst anxiety in the world, so I’m just like, “You have to do this now.” Oh, and I drink a Celsius before I go into the studio.

How do you approach digital spaces?

I have a lot of anxiety and digital spaces don’t help with that. But once I was complaining to a friend about having to post on social media, and he was like, “Well if somebody else out there wants it bad enough, they’re gonna post.” I was like, “…Who? No one wants it more than me!” So it’s just a pill I have to swallow.

It has become really complicated to just be a musician and it makes me sad. Now you also have to be a marketing expert and a content creator. It can be helpful—that kind of marketing is accessible to everyone and it doesn’t require a massive budget, so independent artists, broke artists, can promote their work for free. But I know that I’m not good at those things; the only thing I’m remotely able to do is write a song. If I didn’t have to [be on social media], I wouldn’t be, but it’s in the fabric of everything.

What are the rewards of your creative practice?

I get everything out of making music. I genuinely believe it is exactly what I am meant for. When I’m making music, I’m never worried that I should be doing something else. I never feel like it’s a waste of time. My whole life, I never felt that with anything that I did. So there’s no doubt in my mind that this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Every once in a while, someone will message me and tell me that a song of mine affected them, and that’s all the more reason to keep doing it. It’s the greatest, most fulfilling feeling. It’s the ultimate joy. If all of the external things disappeared and I was just releasing music all alone and okay with that, that would be success to me. Failure would be doing it for any other reason.

This content originally appeared on The Creative Independent and was authored by Carolyn Bernucca.