Skip to main content

3 Tips On Writing Songs in Stories

- Germaine -


So you want to write songs in stories, but have no idea where to start? Unfortunately for you, I have no idea how to write songs, too. But before you begin to despair, here are a few tips I've learned from reading a few books.

1. Songs DO NOT need to rhyme

I see this a lot. It's a little annoying when it's overused in the same book, especially when the author seems to run out of rhymes.

I'm not saying, "don't rhyme your songs at all." Some songs that rhyme are actually quite good.

I'm saying, "think about it." If the song you're writing fits well with your story, go for it. But if it seems out of place, you might want to consider rewriting it. The worst case scenario would be to delete it entirely and erase all traces of it from your story.

2. Write songs like you're writing poetry

Songs are poems, after all. So wouldn't it be fun to just throw out some deep, meaningful figurative language? Of course, it would have to somewhat relate to the song, or else it won't make sense. You could try writing a poem, then putting it to music. Try new things. Take risks. You can always edit later.

3. Keep your songs short

Once I wrote a four-page song into a story with my brother. It wasn't pretty. We could spend minutes just going over the entire song. Sometimes we skipped over it to save time. 

My point is, keep your songs short.

My recommendation would be one page, maximum. 


Enjoy yourself,
      - Germaine
     James 1:17

Read any good books with great songs in them? Comment below!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Sonnets

We studied Romeo and Juliet in English, discovering the foolish protagonists and their sappy sonnets. An activity in class was to write our own, so we picked strange themes and twisted the idea of a sonnet. What we produced is as follows: Oh, My Fair Sonnet Oh, my fair Sonnet, how lovely art thou, Thou tellest most flattering descriptions, Thou entrancest me with stunning words now, If told by others, I’d think were fiction. Thou enchant me with thy pretty quatrains, In which there are many wonderful rhymes. I’d  listen always without any pains, For leaving would be committing bad crimes. Alas, my fairest love must leave me, My misfortunate heart must wave goodbye. My fair love won’t listen to any plea, Even though this leaving makes my heart die. Goodbye, goodbye, with a couplet you leave, I wish for you to know how much I grieve. By Grace Death to Romeo Oh Romeo, thou art Darth Sidious We love uncovering your many faults Delight in fi...

The Writing Famine

Colette apologizes, Grace - the original author of this post - has been temporarily removed from this post. Mostly due to the fact that she was not writing anything. Which might have been the point. Since the page is titled "Writing Famine" the page may have been meant to experience a famine of words. In which case it ought to be blank. So Colette will stop writing and allow the page to properly experience a writing famine. There will be no more words. Colette couldn't do it. She has thought of another topic for this page - what if it was supposed to be about the lack of writers, or about writer's block? If so, the page cannot be blank! So she had to write this. She is also aware that Hannah has covered this topic, and she was talking about the lack of creativity. So, as Jo said: we are forgetful people and need to be reminded of things. Therefore Colette will remind you that you never know, if you feel there is a lesson the world can be taught ...

Colors

I watched my daughter's sightless eyes close as I pulled her blanket around her tiny body. Even as she drifted into sleep, her smile tried desperately to rid my face of its scowl. The white men had done this to my Amika. They brought the disease that left her weak and blind. They brought the weapons that killed my father. They brought the culture that destroyed mine. They forced me away from everything I knew, they starved my family, they took away my reason to live, they broke my spirit. They left me in this cursed land in a tiny shack with nothing but my blind daughter. I, Malik, can never forgive them. I, Malik, will pay them back. I pulled the new bracelet off her thin little hand. "It feels just like my Cherokee beads, Papa," her innocent voice had said. The African beads from our slave girl Naira did indeed look similar to the Cherokee beads in Amika's hair. I had tried to take them from her earlier, but the confused and hurt look in her blind eyes stop...