Dawn Kenney

What We Owe the Song

Last week, I spent several days at the Write About Jesus conference. It was three days immersed in the craft of Gospel songwriting. I was surrounded by songwriters: seasoned professionals serving on the faculty, people attending their first songwriting conference, and writers at just about every point along the journey.

I came away thinking a lot about our creative gifts, and what we owe the songs we’re given the chance to write. I believe those gifts are something we’ve been entrusted with. And if that’s true, then we have a responsibility to develop them, do the work and use those gifts well.

Art matters. Songs matter. They add something important to the world that wouldn’t be there without them.

The music business gets plenty of criticism, and most of it is deserved. But one of the things I love about the creative community of songwriters is how generously writers help one another. They share what they’ve learned. They make introductions. They encourage. They listen. And when you’re fortunate, you find a few people who will tell you the truth.

None of us learns to do this alone.

I know I wouldn’t be the writer I am without my mentors. Some believed in me at times when I needed someone else to believe a little more than I did. Some taught me things that changed the way I write. Some made introductions. Some opened doors. And some cared enough to tell me that a song - or a line I really loved - wasn’t there yet.

But the best mentors don’t just give us answers. Over time, they teach us to ask better questions of our own work:

Is every line moving the song forward, or am I taking two lines to say one thing?
Have I earned that chorus?
Have I proven the hook?
Have I answered the “so what?” Why should the listener care?
Can we beat it?

Eventually, their voices become the ones we carry into the writing room even when they’re not there.

After all these years, I still need those people. Experience hasn’t made me immune to blind spots. If anything, I’ve learned how difficult it can be to hear our own work objectively.

We know too much.

We know the story behind the story. We know what happened before the first verse. We know why we chose that particular word. We know what we meant.

The listener doesn’t.

That’s why even experienced writers need people they trust to listen from outside the song. And I am careful about whose voices I invite into that space. Over time, we find the people who know our work, understand what we’re trying to do and care enough to be honest with us.

I trust their ears and their intentions. They want the song to be better, not simply different, and they understand who I am as a writer. They aren’t trying to turn my song into the one they would have written - and they don’t need me to agree with them.

A trusted mentor can say, “Here’s what I’m hearing,” and leave the decision with me. Because ultimately, the decision - and the responsibility for the song - is mine.

But finding people willing to tell us the truth is only half of it.

We must be willing to hear it.

And that may be harder. Songwriting is personal. We pull ideas from our experiences, our beliefs, our relationships, our imagination and some pretty tender places. Then we put them on a page and hand them to somebody else.

It takes confidence to do that - to trust our instincts, make creative choices, walk into writing rooms, play songs for people, hear “no” over and over again, and come back tomorrow to do it all again.

But that same instinct to believe in our work can make us quick to defend it. When someone questions a line we love or hears a problem we don’t hear, it’s easy to stop listening and start explaining.

That’s where confidence can quietly become ego.

The tricky thing about ego is that it doesn’t always look like ego.

Sometimes it sounds like: 

“They just don’t understand what I’m trying to do.”

“That’s my favorite line.”

Or that old songwriter favorite: “Yeah, but…”

I’ve used every one of them. And sometimes the other person really doesn’t understand. But before I explain what I meant, there’s a harder question worth asking:

Why didn’t they get it?

This question is important because once the song leaves the writing room, I won’t be standing beside it to explain.

That doesn’t mean every critique is right. Listening with an open mind doesn’t mean surrendering our own judgment. We have to develop discernment too.

I think there’s an important difference: Confidence can disagree. Ego refuses to listen.

Maybe the line stays exactly as it is. Maybe the suggestion isn’t the answer, but it reveals the question we should have been asking. Can we beat it? At first, that’s a question about the song. But the longer I do this, the more I think it asks something of the writer too: Can I listen better? Stay open? Keep learning? Care more about serving the song than defending what I brought into the room?

The goal isn’t to prove who was right. The goal is to serve the song.

Because eventually, the song leaves us. And it has a job to do.

Maybe its job is to make somebody laugh, break a heart, offer hope, stir a memory or put words around a feeling somebody has never been able to articulate. And sometimes, it’s meant to carry a message of faith, hope or truth to someone who needs to hear it.

Whatever the job, our responsibility is to give the song its best chance to do it.

If we’re lucky, it finds somebody who doesn’t know how many versions we wrote, which line we fought to keep or which one we finally let go. They just know what the song made them feel. It made them remember someone. It made them laugh. It gave them hope. Maybe it put words around something they hadn’t been able to say for themselves.

That’s the job.

Which brings me back to that room full of writers at Write About Jesus.

Something changes after you’ve been doing this for a while. You’re still learning from the people who teach and challenge you, but every now and then you look over your shoulder and realize somebody else is looking toward you.

Last week, I found myself moving between all those places - learning from writers I respect, sitting beside peers and wrestling with songs together, and sharing some of what I’ve learned with writers who are earlier in the journey.

That’s how it’s supposed to work.

I’ve had people generously pour their experience, wisdom, encouragement and honesty into me for years. Their voices have followed me into countless writing rooms. And if I do this right, some of what they taught me gets passed along. Maybe something I say to another writer becomes a question they carry into a writing room someday too.

Have I proven the hook?
Have I answered the “so what?”
Can we beat it?

I hope I never stop asking those questions.

I believe our creative spark is a gift, and being a good steward of it means staying teachable, doing the work and giving every song its best chance to do what it came here to do. 

That’s what we owe the song. 

This month’s blog is a little different. Bluegrass Today was kind enough to publish my piece reflecting on Dolly Parton — what she taught me about dreams, staying true to yourself, and making the most of the gifts and time we’re given.

Read “Dawn Kenney remembers Dolly Parton: On purpose, with purpose” at Bluegrass Today →

I love summer because life seems to slow down a little. This year I've spent a lot of time on the beach, watching the waves roll in, listening to the gulls overhead, and letting the rhythm of the ocean quiet my thoughts for a while. There's been coffee by my flower garden, after-dinner walks, evenings filled with crickets and katydids, and picking around a campfire with good friends.

I've realized that summer keeps teaching me some of the same things I lean on every time I sit down to write a song. They're simple things, but they make all the difference. Here are five that have stayed with me this summer.

1. Every Song Needs a Little Sunshine

Even the saddest songs need a little light.

• Hope doesn't have to be big. Sometimes it's just enough to keep the listener listening.
• A touch of humor, redemption, or grace can make a difficult song easier to carry. 
• Give your listener a reason to stay until the last note. 
• Ask yourself: Where does the sunshine peek through? 

2. Slow Down and Leave Room to Breathe

The best summer days aren't rushed. Great songs shouldn't be either.

• Don't explain every emotion. Trust the listener to connect the dots. 
• Give your melody and lyric room to do their jobs. 
• Silence, pauses, and simplicity can be just as powerful as words. 
• Ask yourself: Am I giving this song room to breathe? 

3. Pack Light

The best trips, and the best songs, don't need a lot of baggage.

• Stay true to one idea. Don't wander off course. 
• Every verse should earn its place. 
• Cut the clever line if it doesn't serve the song. 
• Ask yourself: What could I leave behind?

4. Notice the Fireflies

The little things are usually the things we remember most.

• Great songs are built on small, honest details. 
• Don't tell us it’s summer. Let us hear the screen door, smell the burgers on the grill, & see the lightning bugs
• One authentic image is worth more than a page of explanation. 
• Ask yourself: What's the one detail that brings this whole scene to life? 

5. Pull Up Another Chair

The best songs should feel like you're sitting around a campfire with an old friend.

• Write like you're talking to one person, not performing for a crowd. 
• Use words you'd actually say in a conversation. 
• Let honesty do the heavy lifting. You don't have to impress anyone. 
• Ask yourself: Would I say it this way to a friend?

Before summer slips away, pour that second cup of coffee. Take the after-dinner walk. Stay outside to watch the moon rise and listen to the night sounds. Don't pass up the chance to pick around a campfire with a few good friends. Those ordinary moments have a way of becoming extraordinary over time. They're the ones we remember. They're the ones we write about.

The best songs come from living well enough to have something worth writing about.

If there's one thing songwriting has taught me, it's that the road forward is rarely a straight line.

When I first started writing songs, I thought success would come from having a good plan and working hard enough to make it happen. While hard work certainly matters, life has a way of reminding us that we don't always get to choose the route.

Over the years, I've encountered plenty of obstacles, disappointments, rejection, and closed doors. As songwriters, we collect them. Songs we believe in don't always find a home right away. Opportunities that seem within reach sometimes disappear overnight. Momentum stalls, and plans have a way of changing when we least expect it.

There was a time when every rejection felt personal. Every closed door felt like a verdict. I could spin in circles wondering if I wasn't talented enough, working hard enough, or simply good enough.

Experience has taught me otherwise.

Many of the doors I desperately wanted to open would have led me away from the path I'm walking today. Looking back, some of my greatest blessings arrived disguised as setbacks. A missed opportunity pushed me to grow as a writer. Disappointments taught me patience and perseverance. A closed door redirected me toward people, experiences, and opportunities I never would have found otherwise.

Now, when I encounter obstacles, I try to see them differently.

Sometimes what looks like a setback is really an invitation to slow down. A chance to step back, regroup, learn something new, or adjust course. What feels like a roadblock may simply be a redirection toward a path we couldn't see from where we were standing.

I've learned that growth doesn't always happen during the big moments. More often, it happens in the quiet seasons—in the daily work of showing up, grinding away, paying attention, and continuing to move forward even when progress feels slow.

Some seasons bring great leaps forward. Others are made up of baby steps.

Both matter.

The key, I've discovered, is staying open. Staying flexible. Being humble and honest with yourself about exactly where you are. Staying willing to learn. Most importantly, staying persistent enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

These past few years have reminded me of that truth in unexpected ways. Returning to school, learning new skills, meeting new people, and exploring opportunities I never imagined a few years ago were never part of the original plan. Yet each step has revealed another piece of the journey.

This past year, in particular, has brought a season of significant progress. Some long-held goals have become realities. A few bucket-list items have found their way into the "accomplished" column. Milestones I worked toward for years—never entirely certain they would happen—have suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

But reaching a goal teaches you something interesting. You spend years focused on getting somewhere, only to discover that arriving isn't really the end of the journey. For a moment, you pause and appreciate the view. Then you realize the horizon has moved.

New goals emerge. New dreams take shape. New opportunities to learn, grow, and serve appear just beyond the next bend in the road.

I've come to understand that the destination was never really the point. The growth happened while climbing the mountain. The lessons were learned along the way.

When I look back, I can see a pattern.

The doors that ultimately opened were rarely the ones I spent the most time pushing on. Instead, they were the ones God quietly placed along the path while I was busy doing the work in front of me.

I've come to believe that our job isn't to see the entire road ahead. Our job is simply to take the next faithful step.

Write the song.

Learn the lesson.

Make the phone call.

Show up.

Trust the process.

Then pay attention.

Because if we're willing to keep moving forward—with open hands and an open heart—we'll often discover that what felt like a detour was actually leading us exactly where we needed to go.

The road continues, and so does the journey.

And as grateful as I am for the miles behind me, I'm excited to see what waits around the next bend.

The road ahead is calling…

I was confirming a writing apt for this week in Nashville with two of my favorite writers. The last time we got together we wrote a song that I consider one of the best I've ever had a hand in. As we were wrapping up the conversation, I said "are you bringing lightning in a bottle ? "  and I have been thinking about that phrase for the last two days.  

 Lightning in a bottle usually means capturing something rare, electric, and almost impossible to recreate. It’s that one moment where everything aligns — timing, emotion, performance, chemistry — and it just hits. In songwriting, people use it to describe that once-in-a-career smash, the co-write where the room felt charged, the demo that somehow can’t be topped, the chorus that feels bigger than the writer. Lightning is unpredictable, uncontrollable, rare, dangerous. So the phrase implies: “You can’t manufacture magic. It either strikes or it doesn’t.” 

That’s the romantic Nashville version. The mythical one. The story we tell about the hits. And sure — there is mystery involved. But I don’t think that’s the whole truth. What if lightning doesn’t just happen? In nature, lightning strikes where there’s pressure, friction, a charged atmosphere, a path to ground. 

That’s not random, That’s conditions. 

So maybe in songwriting, lightning isn’t luck — it's a prepared atmosphere. 

You build craft so the structure can handle the charge. 

You build emotional truth so there’s pressure in the room.

 You build chemistry in the co-write — friction in the good way. 

You build a clear hook — a path to ground.

 And when those conditions are right, it strikes. 

Given how intentional you are — with structure, with perspective, with emotional depth — you’re not waiting for lightning. You’re building a lightning rod. That’s different. 

You study form. You refine emotional angles. You shape demos carefully. You think about artist fit. That’s atmospheric pressure. 

When people say a song feels electric, what they’re really feeling is earned inevitability. Lightning doesn’t strike flat ground. It strikes the highest point. 

So maybe lightning in a bottle isn’t about waiting. It’s about elevation. Raising your craft. Raising your emotional honesty. Raising the stakes of what you’re willing to say. 

And when you do that long enough? You don’t chase lightning. It starts looking for you.