the thing I most dreaded when I began making songs at age 12 was being killed in a classic Brooklyn hit-and-run before I could create a world-famous masterpiece. not so much anymore.
these days I don’t sit and wonder if my next song will make me famous, or whether someday critics will consider it a major work. when I put my stuff out there in the world it’s because I’m seeking understanding and connection with others.
mostly, songwriting makes the feelings manageable, particularly on days when I find myself slipping, feeding my habits, relapsing, hurting myself. (85 percent of people relapse within a year of treatment.)
people fight their way out of really tough situations in different ways; I just have to tell you how bad it felt through music. the pain is released through the songs. and to be able to do that, and reveal something intimate, to me makes the song, any one of them, a masterpiece.
it has a little something to do with craft, skill and workmanship. it has everything to do with intent and human connection.
and it has nothing to do with wanting to be popular. when the goal is to be popular, then it’s all about the judgment of the world. what makes songwriting masterful to me is the vulnerability of it: risking something, going against what’s expected or normal and outside the usual, and coming out with something different that could somehow, in some small way, touch another person and make them feel understood and loved.
when the listener believes the song understands her and is all about her, the moment that happens, then her life is changed forever.
my music may not be immortal, and I’m okay with that. if it has provided a moment or two of consolation, some meaning to someone, it will still be a masterpiece of sorts. it will be somebody’s masterpiece.
cookie nieves 
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