I love to cook. I'm getting better at it all the time. From time to time in these ramblings I'll drag you into my imaginary kitchen and cook you something nice as a metaphor for our musical discussions. Why? Because cooking and presenting a meal, be it a humble tuna casserole for your own survival or Thanksgiving dinner for your whole insane family, comes from the same part of the brain as writing, arranging, and recording music. A kitchen is the same thing as a recording studio. There are differences, of course. But just as you would never in a million years try to pass off ten slabs of jerky stuck together with liverwurst as Beef Wellington, you just can't fake a great song.

You can, however, fake a good song. Part of the reason I write this is because I hate fake good songs, and I will consider my time here well spent if I can show you how to recognize them so you never write one yourself. McDonald's makes something that is edible and sometimes tastes like food, just as Celine Dion opens that hole under her nose and spews forth something approximating music (I swear somewhere up that woman's nose is a button, or perhaps a treble knob, that would make that sound palatable to the ear; we might be getting into Shel Silverstein territory there). But I know somewhere within my accumulated sensory knowledge that when I bite into a Big Mac, something tells me in a surly little voice, "something just ain't quite right here."

The difference between a good song and a great song, between real and fake, is the deceptively simple "Bolt From The Blue," aka "inspiration" or "your muse." More hairy words, to be sure, and not reserved merely for us chefs and songwriters. But in our discipline it all starts with the light bulb over your head, your heart, your soul, your ears, the fun bits between your legs, wherever. Something inside you needs musical expression, and it's just sitting there badgering you for a voice. At some point I'll get around to discussing boring yet crucial elements of songwriting such as which instrument to use to extract that voice, knowing your intervals, attention to progression, the tools you'll need to adjust those things, and other theoretical mumbo jumbo. We'll get deep into discussions about why, say, "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and "Sultans Of Swing" are both great songs and about the mechanisms that make them so.

For now though, rule #1 is that you must listen to your muse, and do what it says. The more you listen and obey, the happier your muse will be, and lo, you shall be rewarded. I don't think Celine Dion (or her songwriting-by-committee contemporaries) has a muse, which is why I'm reminded of painting by numbers with sun-dried mayonnaise every time I hear her sing.

Last time I mentioned that the only true way to measure the quality of a piece of music (unlike mayonnaise) is against the passage of time, and here's where it starts. As you begin the lifelong process of writing songs, your muse will toss you some perfectly inane ideas for music. The problem is that if you don't follow them through to whatever conclusion they dictate, there is no way to differentiate those pathetic ideas from the true gems. In the kitchen, this might be the equivalent of learning the hard way that you really ought to take the beans out of the can before bunging the whole thing into the microwave.

Lessons in songwriting take a hell of a lot longer, that's all. Your muse, once you find it, is always right. Accept that. Your job as its hapless student is to learn that its stupid ideas are merely tests that you must recognize and pass. Like anything else, learning those lessons and passing those tests comes from practice and experience, not to mention the pained expressions of your early audiences.

Next time, we'll chat a little about progression, a little more about inspiration, and being butt-naked in front of your audience and loving it.

Eric Friedmann is a San Francisco-based songwriter and frontman of his band Eric Friedmann and the Lucky Rubes. In his spare time from 9-5 he dreams about quitting his job.