I was in Queenstown, New Zealand last week with my best friend from high school. We were there before setting off on a 3-night hike on one of the ‘Great Walks’ of New Zealand — the Kepler Track.
Queenstown is stunning — right on a lake, wrapped in mountains, with a kind of Swiss-village energy that makes you involuntarily whisper “Wow” every ten minutes.
But I was nervous.
I’d never done a multi-night hike of this length before. I was worried I’d twist an ankle in the first 15 minutes. Would I be able to carry my backpack… for 60kms? I didn’t want to be the one who held us back. I was already imagining emergency helicopters before I’d even put down my latte and picked up my hiking poles…
And then my friend said something (in one of the many outdoorsy stores we wandered into the day before departure) that struck me as a core truth — not only for the trek we were about to tackle, but for any endeavour worth doing. Anything that pushes you past your comfort zone. Anything unfamiliar. Anything meaningful.
What my friend said — and why it matters for ‘songwriters’.
We were standing in Patagonia (or MacPac, or one of the other deeply seductive outdoor gear stores), fondling brightly coloured fleeces and admiring a pair of shorts that could also become a tent…all of which begun to feel possibly necessary for survival.
At one point, I caught myself seriously considering sweat-wicking finger muffs (or something equally ridiculous).
I turned to my friend and said, “All this gear is so beautiful! Maybe my fingers will be sweaty and cold! Or hot! I suddenly feel like I’m not a serious hiker unless I have this stuff…”
She nodded with great understanding, then said:
“Yeah, it’s all so well designed. But honestly? All you really need for a big hike is food, water, and the will to do it.”
Food. Water. The will to do it.
In that moment, the magnetic pull of all that gorgeous, expensive gear evaporated. I could feel how I’d let my anxiety about the unknown convince me that “the right gear” would fix it — would fill in the gaps, would protect me from whatever might go wrong.
I could also suddenly see how the price tags weren’t just selling fleeces and clever shorts — they were selling the idea of being “the kind of person who goes on epic hikes.”
“Being the kind of person” is often just procrastination in a fun costume.
We do this in so many areas of life.
We get fixated on becoming the identity — the aesthetic, the vibe, the outward trappings of “the person who does the thing” — instead of just…doing the thing.
We perform the peripheral behaviours that look like preparation, but are actually sophisticated avoidance strategies. And a great deal of time (and money) can be wasted that way.
Which brings me to you, songwriter.
Here’s the truth:
You don’t need to ‘be a songwriter’ to write songs.
You don’t need to look, feel, or have anything special in order to make meaningful progress.
You don’t need a fresh Moleskine.
You don’t need to practice guitar more first.
You don’t need to read books about lyric writing and “finding your creative voice.”
You already have everything you need to sit down and write something beautiful, personal, and meaningful — right now.
Most of the time, the only thing that gets in the way is giving yourself permission.
So here it is:
I’m giving you permission.
Permission to begin.
Permission to write before you feel “ready.”
Permission to skip the identity performance and go straight to the part where you make something real.
And if you want a little extra support with that — the kind that isn’t about consuming more information, or buying more metaphorical fleece jackets — then I’d love to invite you into the January 7-Day Songwriting Challenge.
This challenge isn’t about learning more about songwriting.
It’s not about polishing an identity, or proving you’re “a songwriter.”
And it’s definitely not me selling you a new, shinier form of procrastination.
It’s about giving yourself a structure that makes starting feel possible.
It’s about a tiny, manageable action each day — nothing heroic, nothing overwhelming.
It’s about accountability, community, and permission baked right into the week.
And by the end of it, you’ll have a song. Not an identity. Something real.
It’s the entry ticket onto the mountain, not the sweat-wicking finger muffs.
Just show up.
Do the small thing.
Let the song arrive.
You can join us here.
I’d love to walk that week with you.
See you there,
Keppie
