I’m empty,
Got no fucks to give.
I’m dying
But you just won’t let me live.
* * *
Quentin added, “These lyrics are—”
“Don’t you dare say they’re shit. They need some work; I know that, but—”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
She didn’t know that she trusted his word. “So what was it then?”
“These lyrics sound like words you’ve written before. Uh…on your first album. I can’t remember the name of the song, but the words went something like, ‘I don’t care about you, ‘cause you don’t care about me. I tried to be a friend, but you kicked me in the teeth’.”
“So? My fans want to hear shit like that. What’s so bad about it?” Even while countering him, she’d noticed something and she tried to dismiss the fact that she was impressed that he’d remembered the lyrics—not just “something like” her song but word for word.
This time, his sigh was long and slow. “I don’t know how to explain this…but your lyrics feel like bullshit.”
Heat creeped up her neck, warming her cheeks, and her throat constricted. “Bullshit?” Now he’d poked the bear. Those were fighting words, and she stood up—whether to physically fight him or storm out of the room, she didn’t know. “I didn’t get here by accident. I do have—”
“Just cool it for a second and listen. I’m not saying any of this to piss you off. Believe it or not, I want to help you. That’s my job here.”
“By insulting me? You’ve got a funny way of doing it.”
“Just listen. Those words from the new song—those were how Raine Dennison felt when she first started writing and singing. That implies that you haven’t experienced any growth since then, that you haven’t changed a bit. You’re doing your fans—and yourself—a disservice by simply regurgitating your old work. Does it sound like you? Does it feel like you? It definitely does. But it feels a lot like something you would have written a long time ago.”
“Maybe you didn’t know, but I didn’t start recording until four years ago.”
“That’s my point. And are you the same person?” She didn’t answer because she didn’t like where any of this was going. “I could point out more examples if you want—but I think you already know. What you’ve written here is…safe. It’s like you’re just putting on a mask. My fans want to hear about pain, so I’ll give it to them. And maybe you do have pain in your life, but this isn’t it. When you released your first album, you were honest and open and now you’re just rehashing it all. Your words aren’t telling your truth now. That’s what I’m looking for and it’s what your fans want.”
She couldn’t hold it in any longer but she stopped herself from yelling. Instead, she worked hard to keep her voice as icy cold as could be. “You don’t know me and you definitely don’t know what I was thinking or feeling when I wrote those lyrics. And how could you? You don’t know anything about me. You know nothing. You’re just judging me.”
“I’m really not.”
“You just think I’m a joke. Well, I’m sorry they saddled you with me.”
“Raine…would you please just stop for a second?”
“Why? You’re just like everybody else. They read the headlines and think they know everything there is.”
“No. I don’t give a shit about the headlines or what happened before you got here. I care about your music.”
She wanted to believe him but she was still bristling, her chest heaving in anger. “Okay, fine.” Sitting down, she pulled the notebook back from Quentin and began crossing out words and lines, replacing them with inspiration. “What about this?”
“Go ahead.”
Taking a sip of water, she hummed to find the right chord and then began singing. “You’ve drained me dry, you asshole guy/ I can never be perfect, but that’s my beauty/ The root of my evil, no matter how much I try.”
“Wait. Stop.”
“What?”
“This…isn’t any better. In fact, it might be worse.”
