How Songs Are Born

The creative process is like observing an exotic bird from close range in its natural habitat.
At first, you must hold still and focus yourself. No sudden movements or anything that will startle it. 
Then, intermittently, you sneak quick peeks at the bird. Still being conscious of not doing anything drastic, you start to sense its shape, it's movements, and more importantly, it's disposition toward you and the world. 
You settle in, and the bird is conscious of your presence. It then begins to observe you. 
The hope is to be appraised as an artist who is ruthlessly aware and unafraid to dig into the trenches of life. Someone who is open to feel anything. Someone who will venture to the edge of a limb and reach high for ripest fruits of truth. Someone whose intent is to nurture the muse. 
In time, the bird starts to trust you. It allows you to stare and inventory the colors and textures of its feathers, the shape of the beak, and the limit to how long you can stare at it before it becomes uncomfortable. Before it feels like too much attention is being paid on it, and not enough on living in the trenches and sending dispatches to be felt by others.
Do not be void of the requisite gratitude toward the bird for even allowing itself to be viewed from such close range. 
Live. Express. Sit still. Don't stare. Trust that osmosis will create the trust you seek. The amount of time spent feeling each other. 
Please note, the magic resides in what you don’t yet know. The more you think you know, the likelier it is that the bird flies away. Be humble and keep an eye out for each other. 
That's how I write songs, anyway.
At least right now.