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The True Worth of Art: My Songwriting Journey

This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Texas chapter.

For many years, I believed songwriting was a dream forever out of reach. A few years ago, I knew maybe three chords on the guitar and could barely form a melody. However, when I leaned into my love for poetry, I realized that a poem, a few chords, and a simple melody were all I needed to write a song.

Throughout most of high school, I found joy in writing simple songs that only the walls of my bedroom would hear. I loved creating imaginary worlds and stories, most of which I couldn’t relate to at all. But after filling a journal with random verses, choruses, and bridges, I realized that songwriting had become a way to escape my emotions rather than process them.

Although I had always listened to my favorite artists talk about the importance of vulnerability and personal reflection in their music, the idea of being truly honest—even with myself—felt uncomfortable. But as I began to explore my emotions more deeply, I noticed a shift in my writing. While it was difficult to be so vulnerable about my anger, sadness, and fear, the outcome was worth the discomfort of the moment.

When I started the college application process in my junior year of high school, I didn’t expect to reflect so deeply on how songwriting had shaped my life. I thought I would spend weeks debating essay topics, but I couldn’t think of a story more meaningful than what I had learned through songwriting.

My thoughts kept drifting back to a small record store I had recently visited. Inside, about twenty cardboard boxes held old records, packed edge to edge with artists I had never heard of, each selling for just twenty-five cents. I picked out a few records without thinking much of it. When I arrived home, I noticed a half-written song sitting next to my record player—right beside a quarter. Twenty-five cents.

I began constructing my essay, but I couldn’t shake the thought that nothing I write will ever make a difference; that even if I did manage to create art I was proud of, it would most likely end up in a cardboard box fifty years from now, mindlessly scrolled past by a seventeen-year-old girl. Although, slowly, it dawned on me:

A manager in a used vinyl shop can stick a price tag on every record they have, assigning value based on age, rarity, and so-called “importance,” but each of those albums holds a story and a feeling someone once wanted to express. And that’s what truly matters.

Once upon a time, at least one person walked into a record store filled with fresh vinyl and decided that that story, that feeling, and that record was what they wanted to experience. Now, those songs reside in a used record store, worn with love, waiting to be discovered and felt once again. So even if my greatest work—something I pour my heart and soul into—ends up in a used record store with a twenty-five cent price tag, at least it was experienced.

Now that I’m in college, I can’t imagine my life without a guitar in my lap and a pen in my hand. There may be moments of discomfort, doubt, and frustration, but songwriting has become a part of who I am. By stepping back and recognizing how much my “little hobby” has shaped me, I’ve discovered a truth that will carry me through the rest of my life: the value of art isn’t in its price, but in its ability to inspire.

Elie Brunson is a freshman at the University of Texas at Austin, where she is pursuing her bachelor's in Journalism. On her page, you will find stories on life, arts, campus news, and much more. Beyond Her Campus, Elie is a General Life & Arts Reporter for The Daily Texan, a member of Communication Council and in the Moody College Honors Program. In her free time, Elie enjoys creative writing, playing guitar, reading, singing, watching any movie she can find.