I’ve always enjoyed reading anything other writers have to say about their writing processes, and in particular the series of Guardian articles featuring the rooms writers work in. Why this should be I’m less sure about; it may be that my subconscious hopes there’s something alchemical about writing; some secret formula that, if known, can be replicated. But my rational brain sees straight through this conceit. You can’t make writing easier, you only strive to make it less painful. For that you want your tools of the trade to hand, your mascots around you, your works of reference and your gurus looking down on your work, imparting whatever wisdom you’re capable of absorbing.

Released on 24 February 2009, Wellington-based composer Rhian Sheehan’s Standing In Silence is a relatively recent addition to my armoury of music to write by, but I could tell on the first listen that it fulfilled each of my criteria. Sheehan has been an active recording artist since 2001 and his work has featured in a number of films, commercials and an Emmy Award-winning TV series. This album is what I’d normally describe, if forced to put it into words, as “ambient” music, by which I mean it enhances the mood in the room, augments or improves an existing atmosphere without dominating it or dictating a mood – aural wallpaper, if you like; although that sounds dismissive of the music and it isn’t meant to be because a functioning soundtrack is an intrinsic part of a lot of my writing.

Steve Reich’s Music For 18 Musicians is a 33-year-old piece of music I discovered relatively recently that’s had probably the most direct influence on my writing – so much so that I wrote it into one of my later short stories as a character. Steve Reich is now 75; not that you’d guess from listening to this record. I can’t think of a more modern-sounding piece of music – it’s positively futuristic, which in itself is extraordinary, since he uses only orchestral instruments (cello, violin, clarinet, bass clarinet, pianos, marimbas, xylophones, unamplified vibraphone and women’s voices), no electronics, and only the musicians’ breath to create the effect of what could be mistaken for a sequencer.

As Frank Zappa memorably said, music is the best. In the early to mid-2000s, I reviewed a variety of CDs for the IDG New Zealand magazine >>FFWD, including albums by Can, David Gray, Dave Brubeck, various world music artists, Herbie Hancock, The Who, The Blue Nile, Peter Gabriel and many others. Writers review other people’s work for all kinds of reasons; not least because, although the pay rates are often negligible (or non-existent), it provides you with a ‘free’ source of listening or reading. Many of the CDs I’m listening to today were acquired as review copies, so it’s a win-win. And there’s nothing like being required to articulate in a couple of hundred words what you think of something for arriving at clarity in your own mind.

As I said in my previous post, music often plays a role in creating conditions conducive to writing. Just to recap, my criteria for great music to write by are: 1. It has to be more than wallpaper, should enhance your mood while not distracting you from the task at hand. 2. It should engender a mood of anticipation; filled with possibilities, not the intimidation that makes a blank page seem bigger and scarier than the potential it holds. 3. There should be an underlying, bristling electricity that hints at anything-could-happen. You’re seeking an inner tranquillity and an outward tingling; a 3 o’clock in the morning feeling that shifts your mind up a gear.

I’m reviewing another oldie this time, Brian Eno and Harold Budd’s 1984 recording The Pearl. An interval of 27 years between its release and my review seems about right, although it sounds fresh enough to have been recorded yesterday.

Listening choices often play a role in the creative decisions a writer makes. What music is most likely to get your creative juices flowing? 1. It must be more than wallpaper but less than a 30-minute makeover. It should enhance your mood, not distract you from the task at hand. 2. It should engender a mood of anticipation and possibilities, not the intimidation that makes a blank page seem bigger and scarier than the potential it holds. 3. There should be a bristling electricity that hints at anything-could-happen. You’re seeking an inner tranquillity and an outward tingling; a 3 o’clock in the morning feeling that shifts your mind up a gear. These are recordings that fulfil those criteria and more.

All great art leaves you wanting more, and is thus ultimately unfulfilling. The perfect pop song is the most poignant example of this: Three minutes of unfulfilled potential. You want to hear the best bits over and over. But they’re the best bits only because they don’t occur often. The classic example of this is the jubilant guitar chord riff that opens New Order’s ‘Regret’ from Republic, and which forms the song’s real hook.

Those of you familiar with David Sylvian from his days as the frontman of Japan, or from his groundbreaking third solo album ‘Secrets of the Beehive’, will find his voice instantly recognisable but may remember it as being of apparently limited range. However, his vocals have become astonishingly dexterous, and on ‘Snow Borne Sorrow’ sound far less stylised than many ‘new generation’ singers.

From its ballpoint pen cover doodles to the out-of-focus band photos, Scottish band Del Amitri’s album ‘Twisted’ puts a cynical slant on the power of pop, and Food For Songs opens it with an astringent deconstruction of the television industrial complex.