Finding Your Way Back to Music: Lessons for Songwriters from 'Play It Again'

Photo Credit: wavipicture (iStock)

Alan Rusbridger’s Play It Again: An Amateur Against the Impossible — our We Write Songs Book Circle pick for this month — tells the story of a man who, in the middle of one of the most demanding periods of his professional life, decides to take on Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 — one of the most complex piano works ever written.

At the time, he was editing The Guardian during the Wikileaks revelations, managing staff upheaval, and barely sleeping. Yet somehow, he carved out small pockets of time each day to practise.

Like Rusbridger, I came back to something I’d long set aside — for him it was piano, for me it was songwriting. I wrote songs as a teenager, but somewhere between studying music at university and beginning my teaching career, I lost that connection. When life became complicated and I found myself navigating several significant losses, songwriting slowly found its way back to me. What began as a way to process emotion and find steadiness again soon became a lifeline — a reminder of who I was beneath everything else.

For songwriters, Rusbridger’s story shows that time, confidence, and technical limits aren’t what hold us back — they’re what shape us. Working through them can deepen our relationship with music and remind us why we began in the first place.

(📚 You can join the next round of our We Write Songs Book Circle to read along and explore how each book connects with your own creative process.)

Lesson 1: You’re never too busy to make space for your craft

Rusbridger’s daily schedule was brutal: meetings, breaking news, political pressure. But he still found twenty or thirty minutes here and there to practise.

His example highlights one of the easiest traps for songwriters — convincing ourselves that we’re simply too busy to write. Of course life is full. But sometimes “busyness” becomes a kind of shield, protecting us from the frustration of not knowing where to start, or the fear that what we create won’t measure up.

I know that pattern well. There are times, even now, when I tell myself that something else is more urgent — replying to emails, ticking off tasks — when really I’m just avoiding the discomfort of sitting with a song that feels stuck. I used to see that as a kind of failure, but I’ve learned to recognise it as resistance born of self-doubt.

The difference now is awareness. I know that if I sit with the discomfort and push through — even for ten minutes — there’s always something worthwhile waiting on the other side. And I’ve also felt the quiet satisfaction that comes when you flip that pattern and make time anyway: the spark of progress, the sense of movement, the relief of showing up for yourself.

That awareness first grew in the busiest years of my life, when my daughter was small and I was still teaching in schools. I’d find minutes where I could — a quick recording, a lyric scribbled on a lunch break — and it reminded me that creativity doesn’t need ideal conditions. It just needs willingness.

Rusbridger’s story echoes the same truth. Creative time doesn’t have to be large or uninterrupted to matter. A few focused minutes can shift everything. When we carve out time, we’re not just practising our craft — we’re practising self-trust.

Lesson 2: Overcoming limitations is part of the creative journey

Throughout the book, Rusbridger wrestles with technical barriers — finger coordination, memory lapses, complicated timings. He compares himself to professional pianists and constantly feels inadequate. Yet he keeps going, learning to accept progress in tiny increments and celebrating each small victory.

Every songwriter knows this feeling: when your voice won’t do what you want, a lyric sounds clumsy, or your playing doesn’t quite live up to the idea in your head. Those limitations can feel frustrating, but they can also become the doorway to authenticity. When something doesn’t come easily, you’re forced to listen differently — to focus more on feel than finesse.

I often experience that when writing on guitar. I came to the instrument in my twenties, and I’m by no means a fancy player. My hands sometimes can’t make the shapes I hear in my imagination, but that constraint has a way of keeping my writing honest. It pushes me to lean on melody, lyric, and emotion rather than technical display — to tell the story with what I can do, instead of waiting for what I can’t.

That’s what Rusbridger models so beautifully: a willingness to meet yourself where you are. He doesn’t hide from his limitations; he works with them, slowly expanding what’s possible through patience and persistence. Progress isn’t always visible, but it builds quietly beneath the surface. When you stop wishing you were further ahead and start embracing where you are today, creative growth — and genuine satisfaction — begin to take root.

Lesson 3: Come back to your instrument — and to yourself

Rusbridger wasn’t learning from scratch; he was returning. Decades after his student years, he came back to the piano with older hands, a busier mind, and a deeper need for music. That return carries a different kind of tenderness — the humility of beginning again, and the grace of rediscovery.

For many songwriters, that’s a familiar feeling. Maybe you’ve drifted from your instrument, or gone months without writing. Coming back can stir embarrassment or self-criticism — but it can also awaken something powerful. You don’t play or write in quite the same way; life has changed your phrasing, your patience, your perspective.

When you return, you bring with you every experience that’s shaped you in the meantime — the heartbreaks, the healing, the quiet observations. Your hands may be slower, but your heart is fuller. That shift often deepens your storytelling and your connection to what you create.

Rusbridger proves it’s never too late to reconnect with the part of yourself that makes music. The years you’ve spent away don’t erase your musicianship; they deepen it.

So if you’ve been avoiding your instrument, take a gentle cue from his story: sit down, play a few imperfect notes, and see what wakes up. Creativity never stops waiting for you — it simply grows quieter until you’re ready to listen again.

Lesson 4: When overwhelm hits, start smaller — but don’t stop

There are moments in Play It Again when Rusbridger nearly gives up. The Ballade feels impossible, and the weight of his own expectations threatens to crush his enjoyment. His journal becomes a record of both frustration and perseverance.

What eventually saves him is perspective. He stops measuring progress by how much he’s mastered and starts focusing on the next bar, the next phrase, the next day of showing up. That’s where growth happens — in the ordinary repetition that builds skill and trust.

For songwriters, overwhelm often arrives quietly — too many half-finished songs, too many open projects, too many expectations. Rusbridger’s approach offers a quiet antidote: scale your focus down until it feels manageable. Write one line. Fix one chord. Record one verse. Progress is cumulative, and small steps are still steps.

Even a few minutes spent with a song keeps the connection alive. Momentum doesn’t come from big bursts of inspiration; it comes from gentle persistence. Some days that might mean pushing forward. Other days, it’s enough simply to stay in touch with your craft.

Lesson 5: Curiosity and self-belief go hand in hand

One of the most striking things about Rusbridger’s story is his curiosity. Even in moments of frustration, he seeks out teachers, neuroscientists, and performers to understand how learning works. He asks endless questions and treats each answer as fuel rather than proof of his limitations.

That mindset is transformative for songwriters too. When we get curious instead of critical, creative blocks lose their power. Instead of saying “I can’t do this,” we can ask “What’s really happening here?” Maybe the melody isn’t sitting because the lyric’s rhythm is fighting it, or maybe the emotion behind it hasn’t quite revealed itself yet.

Curiosity shifts the focus from self-judgement to exploration. It invites playfulness back into the process and makes space for joy, even in the struggle. The more curious you become, the more confident you feel — not because everything gets easier, but because you start trusting that you can find your way through.

Curiosity is, in many ways, the opposite of fear. It keeps you open, engaged, and connected to learning — the same qualities that carried Rusbridger through his impossible challenge and that carry songwriters through the ups and downs of their creative lives.

Final thoughts: Lessons from 'Play It Again' by Alan Rusbridger

Play It Again is ultimately a story of persistence and possibility. Rusbridger’s journey shows that we can all carve out time for creativity, even when life feels impossibly full. The key is to stop waiting for ideal conditions and start where we are — imperfect, busy, uncertain, but willing.

Reading it reminded me why I started writing songs again in the first place — to stay connected to something honest and human. Like Rusbridger at the piano, I’m learning that mastery isn’t about flawlessness, but about devotion — showing up fully to the work and letting it change you.

As songwriters, our instruments, our words, and our stories are always waiting for us to return. What often stops us isn’t lack of time, but lack of permission — permission to value this part of ourselves, to see creativity not as indulgence, but as nourishment.

So take ten minutes today. Sit at the piano, pick up your guitar, hum into your phone. Don’t worry about how good it is. Just begin.

(If you’re looking for gentle accountability and creative community, you can always find it in We Write Songs.)

💬 Over to you!

Have you ever found your way back to songwriting — or to an instrument — after time away?

Maybe you’ve been through a season where life took over, or you’re just starting to reconnect with your creative side again.

What helped you return, and what have you noticed since stepping back into it?

Share your thoughts in the comments — your story might be exactly what another songwriter needs to hear today.

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