Sound of New Beginnings

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Behind the Scenes: Finding New Ideas for My Next Album

As I sit here at the piano, fingers lightly grazing the keys, the creative process for my next album begins to take shape. The journey of finding fresh ideas for a new project is never as simple as it seems. It’s like fishing—you cast your line into a sea of thoughts, and sometimes you reel in something amazing, other times you come up empty.

The pressure to be “original” or “innovative” can often cloud the real reason I make music in the first place: to share a part of myself with others. So how do I approach this next phase of music creation without getting lost in the noise?

The first thing I do is disconnect. It’s easy to get caught up in listening to everything that’s out there, especially with so much music being released all the time. But I’ve learned that if I want to hear my own voice clearly, I have to stop consuming so much. Sometimes I’ll avoid listening to anything at all, just to make sure I’m coming from a place that’s true to my own thoughts and instincts. It’s about tuning in to myself rather than to what everyone else is doing.

Another thing that helps me find new ideas is revisiting old material. I’ll sit down at the piano and go through songs that didn’t make the cut for past projects. Sometimes there’s a chord progression or a melody that I had forgotten about, and when I play it again, it feels fresh—like it’s ready to be part of something new. There’s something magical about returning to your past work with new eyes and ears, realizing that what once felt incomplete may now hold the missing pieces to a new creation.

Inspiration also comes from life itself—every day has something to offer. I find myself jotting down lyrics based on a fleeting conversation or an interaction with a stranger. Sometimes it’s a feeling sparked by a rainy day or a moment of stillness. These seemingly small moments, which most people might overlook, often give me the most raw, authentic material. It’s amazing how music can grow from the simplest of things if you’re paying attention.

Of course, part of the fun in creating a new album is experimenting with new sounds and pushing myself to try different instruments and techniques. While the piano will always be my core, I’ve been playing around with other instruments and sounds that might help open up new sonic possibilities. Sometimes, just playing a chord in a different way or layering it with something unexpected can unlock an idea I wouldn’t have considered before.

That’s where I am right now—taking my time, staying open to wherever the music wants to go. It’s a slow process, but each idea and discovery builds toward something special. The heart of a new album isn’t something you can rush. It’s more of a slow burn, and the fire keeps growing brighter with every new spark.

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more as I continue this journey!

Making Of An Album

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There’s something both thrilling and mildly unhinged about deciding to make a new album. You sit down with a blank slate, a few tangled emotions, and a nagging sense that this might either be your best work or a very elaborate therapy session disguised as art. Either way, you go in.

It’s been a while since my debut, and life—ever the pushy creative director—has made it clear that I’ve got more to say. Or maybe more to feel. Either way, the songs started arriving, uninvited but insistent, like old friends showing up at your door needing to talk. So here I am again, crafting melodies and mining meaning, song by song.

This new project is called Chasing the Sunlight. And let me be upfront: it’s not about hope, or golden-hour dreams, or skipping through meadows with a ukulele (though I wouldn’t knock it). The title came early, and as titles go, it’s been less of a label and more of a mirror. It wasn’t until I wrote the title track that the weight of it hit me.

Chasing the Sunlight is about the quiet tragedy of pursuing what was never meant to be caught—illusions, unattainable ideals, that shimmer of something we think we need… while often overlooking what’s already in our hands. It’s about the detours we convince ourselves are the destination. Sometimes, those chases shape us. Other times, they just leave us a little more tired and a little less whole.

I’ve finished three tracks so far, and I’ve added a cover of Don’t Dream It’s Over by Crowded House—a song that always felt like a sigh from the soul. It fits here. It belongs in this sonic journal of hope, disillusionment, beauty, and self-deception. You can check it out in the Music section if your heart’s in the mood.

This album is taking me somewhere I didn’t quite expect—into themes that are raw, reflective, and, I hope, a little resonant. It’s about the quiet revelations we have when we realize we’ve been running hard toward something that was never real, or never needed to be chased in the first place.

Thanks for sticking with me as I walk this line between creation and confession. I’ll keep you posted on the progress. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll all stop chasing sunlight long enough to appreciate the warmth we’ve already got.

Stay tuned. Stay grounded. And, if you can help it… stop running toward the glow.

Exploring Something Fragile

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Looking Back on My Debut Album – Songs of a Lonely Fragile

There’s something sacred about a first album. It’s like a snapshot of the soul at a specific moment in time—messy, sincere, vulnerable. For me, Songs of a Lonely Fragile wasn’t just my first album—it was a slow exhale after holding my breath for years.

I didn’t really set out to write an album. I set out to survive some hard days, some heartbreaks, some deep internal shifts I couldn’t quite name yet. I kept waking up with these melodies in my head—little ghosts of feelings I couldn’t shake. I remember sitting down with a simple keyboard and thinking, “Alright, let’s just see what comes out.” What came out was raw. Melodic. Heartfelt. And honest enough to scare me.

“Always Love You” was one of the first tracks I wrote for the album. It came from a conversation I never got to have—those lingering words you wish you’d said, but now they just live as a melody instead. It’s not a promise, really. It’s a confession. There’s a difference.

“Falling” was born out of that dizzying moment when you realize your heart’s gone ahead of you. You’re not thinking, you’re feeling. And it’s beautiful until it isn’t. I kept the production light, letting the vocals carry that weightless tumble you feel when you’re halfway in love and halfway in denial.

“I Can’t Change Your Mind” is the realist of the bunch. That one came from a late night with a guitar, just trying to process that moment when love isn’t enough to convince someone to stay. It’s the most stripped-down song on the album because I wanted it to sound like a conversation you have with yourself—quiet, almost whispered.

“I’m In Love With You” was terrifying to write. It’s so direct. No metaphor, no poetic distance—just the truth. And when you put that truth into a mic, there’s nowhere to hide. But I’ve learned that sometimes simplicity hits the hardest.

Production-wise, I didn’t have fancy gear or a big studio. I had a home setup, some decent mics, and a lot of stubbornness. I tracked vocals in closets, layered harmonies in my kitchen at 2 a.m., and learned more about EQ and reverb than I ever thought I’d need to. Every part was crafted, tested, and usually re-recorded until it felt right. I wasn’t chasing perfection—I was chasing feeling.

“Let It Rain” came during a personal storm, both literal and metaphorical. It’s about release—letting go instead of holding it in. The production has a bit of that cinematic wash because I wanted the song to feel like standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, arms open.

“Paradise” plays like a daydream turned bittersweet. It sounds like summer nostalgia—warm but already fading. That’s exactly what I intended. I added subtle synth layers underneath the acoustic instruments to give it a surreal edge, like memories you’re not sure are real anymore.

“Pieces of You” might be the most emotional song I’ve ever written. It came from a place of grief. Not just losing someone, but losing the version of yourself that existed with them. The strings in that song were my way of saying what I couldn’t say in words. It still hits me when I hear it.

And finally, “When It Was Love”—that’s the quiet sigh at the end of it all. A soft letting go. I wanted the production to feel intimate, like you’re in the room with me as I’m singing it for the last time. That one feels like closing a chapter.

What surprised me most about making this album was how much healing came from the process itself. Song by song, I got to lay it all out, give shape to the things I didn’t know how to say otherwise. And the fact that people have found pieces of their own stories in these songs? That’s been the most unexpected, beautiful part of it all.

Songs of a Lonely Fragile was my first real offering to the world. Not polished to perfection—but made with heart, truth, and a little bit of late-night courage. I’m proud of it. And I’m grateful for everyone who’s taken the time to listen.

If you haven’t yet, you can stream the album here. Let me know which song found you when you needed it. I’d love to hear your story, too.