The say, “write what you know”. While I’m sure I’m not the first, I tend to agree. On the surface – of course – this seems quite obvious as writing about something you know nothing about would be a tremendously difficult task. But as with any great pearl of wisdom, the true meaning is tucked away.

For me, “what you know” is not necessarily what you know, but rather what you feel and who you are. To me, if you’re not writing – or less specifically, creating – “what you know”, then you don’t stand a chance of creating anything of great meaning. It is from this “what you know” that great art is spawned and that unique voices are born.

And it doesn’t matter what you’re creating: music, sculpture, dance, math and advertising all require that unique voice to be heard. What sets the masters apart in any of these fields is that at one point it was like they were speaking their own language.

Sometime in the ’60s, (I say sometimes because it’s nearly impossible to get exact times with this guy, but I digress) Jim Morrison wrote:

I wanna tell you about Texas Radio and the Big Beat
Soft-driven, slow and mad, like some new language

These words have stuck with me since I first heard the songs, but it wasn’t until I read Ignore Everybody, by Hugh MacLeod, that I really found the right context for them. One of the many topics that MacLeod explores in this brilliant book is the idea of a new a language from the point of view of the young artist, creating, without pressure or expectation, and establishing “a new language that other people could also speak to the world with”.

What Morrison is describing is a feeling that I’m sure most of us have experienced. That feeling when you hear a song for the first time and something about it stops you in your tracks. It’s happened to me countless times, but one of the most vivid was hearing Kurt Cobain perform “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” on Nirvana’s Unplugged record (see below for the clip). It was a tape at the time, so I had to stop and rewind again and again because I couldn’t get enough. There was intensity and pain in his voice that I’d never before encountered. His somewhat-flawed vocals spoke to me and yet I couldn’t really understand them. It was truly like as if he was speaking a different language.

And in a sense, he was. Like him or not, Cobain changed the way the language of music is spoken. Just like Lennon & McCartney and many others did before him. And the way the Simpsons writers changed comedy, the Google guys chaged search algortihms and Lee Clow changed advertising.

They didn’t, necessarily, do it by being better than their competition. They did it by writing what they knew in a language that was all their own, but would soon become the language that the audience – and the world – spoke with them.

Please, take the time to check out this clip of Nirvana’s performance, as you can watch the transformation occur in Cobain. Pay close attention at around 4:46. It’s as if he slips out of the trance for a second. When he opens his eyes, either he’s looking at your soul or you’re seeing his. Either way it’s a very intense moment.

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