Picture two songwriters. One just signed with a major publisher and had a song placed in a car ad. The other just finished a song about their dad, alone in a bedroom at midnight, and hasn’t shown it to anyone yet.
Ask either of them if they’ve “made it,” and you’ll get two completely different answers. Neither is wrong.
That’s the thing nobody tells you when you start writing songs: there’s no scoreboard. No bar everyone agrees you have to clear. You get to decide what counts, and that decision changes as you change.
The reward that doesn’t need an audience
A lot of the payoff in songwriting happens before anyone else ever hears the song. You take a feeling that didn’t have words yet and give it a shape. You sit with something hard, a breakup, a death, boredom, and turn it into three minutes that make sense.
That’s not a consolation prize while you wait for the “real” success. For plenty of writers, it’s the whole point. Write honestly enough and the song does its job the moment you finish it, whether or not it ever leaves your hard drive.
There’s also the slower payoff: you get better. Not in a straight line, but you do. The song you write this year handles a bridge you couldn’t have written two years ago. That kind of progress rarely gets applause, but it’s real, and it’s yours.
Being heard is its own thing
Writing for yourself is one kind of success. Writing something that lands for someone else is another, and it’s not a lesser one.
A song that gets played at a funeral. A song a stranger messages you about because it got them through something. That’s a different currency than streams or chart position, and for a lot of songwriters it matters more.
Commercial wins, cuts, sync placements, awards, publishing deals, are real too. They open doors and pay bills, and there’s no reason to pretend they don’t matter just because they’re the version of success other people can actually see. Just don’t mistake them for the only version.
You don’t write in a vacuum
Even the most private songwriter needs somewhere to plug in. A co-write that pushes you somewhere you wouldn’t have gone alone. An open mic crowd that reacts to a line you weren’t sure about. Other writers who tell you the truth about your bridge instead of just being nice about it.
Community doesn’t replace the solitary work (most of the actual writing still happens alone), but it keeps you honest and keeps you going when the solitary work gets hard. If your definition of success includes “still writing in five years,” having people around you matters more than it looks like it should.
The wins nobody claps for
Finishing a song is a win. Doesn’t matter if it’s a proper single or a voice memo that’ll never see daylight. You had an idea and wrestled it into something with a start and an end, and that’s harder than it sounds.
Same goes for putting something out. Recording it, mixing it, actually releasing it, that’s a different skill from writing it, and it takes a kind of nerve. So is playing it live for the first time, even to five people in a pub.
And there’s the win that’s easiest to overlook: getting unstuck. Every songwriter hits a stretch where nothing comes. Writing your way out of that isn’t a footnote to the “real” work. It’s the work.
Set your own terms
None of this is a ranking. You don’t need artistic fulfillment and a fanbase and a publishing deal and a great co-write history to call yourself successful. You need to know which of these actually matter to you, because chasing someone else’s version is a fast way to burn out on something you used to love.
Ask yourself, honestly:
- What am I actually trying to do with a song, when I’m not thinking about anyone else’s opinion?
- What do I want a listener to feel, if there’s a listener at all?
- What’s the version of “doing well” that would make me proud in five years?
Your answers now won’t be your answers forever, and that’s fine. The songwriter chasing a record deal at 25 might spend their 40s chasing nothing but a finished verse before bed. Both are legitimate. Neither needs the other’s approval.
Write the song. Finish it. Decide for yourself what that means. That’s the whole job.
Two comments today, Corey.
I began songwriting in earnest when I retired. I think that remaining thoughtful and creative in retirement is better than watching TV day and night. Songwriting keeps my mind and my fingers active. I had around 200 songs written or co-written before I began releasing any to the streaming services at age 79. I was probably the oldest person ever to have a debut release!
You mention the milestone of having your song played at a funeral. I have had almost that experience. Bob, a songwriting friend, sent me some piano chord progressions to topline. I did one and skipped the other. Then Bob discovered that he had advanced cancer and, within a few months, succumbed to it. I picked up the second piano piece and wrote a song expressing the feeling of losing the music that Bob might have created if he only had the chance. It was not played at the funeral, but his brother read the lyrics as part of his eulogy. I felt both proud and humbled to hear my words on such a solemn occasion.