Paul studies me. “That makes you somewhat of a unicorn.”
I shrug, indifferent to his diagnosis. This isn’t a negotiable point to me.
“I’m in this industry for the songwriting,” I explain. “I have nothing but admiration and respect for public-facing musicians, and I know what they do, everything they put up with, is vital to the musical ecosystem. But I personally have no desire to record, or perform, or receive any kind of notoriety. I’ve never wanted that.”
“Explain why,” Paul urges me.
I could admit I have stage fright or promise Paul I would flail during public appearances. I could say I have no charisma, that both adoration and humiliation from strangers equally terrify me. I could complain about the extra time commitment on top of writing actual music. I have four sisters; one of them is engaged, another pregnant. I could say I’m focused on family right now. None of it is false and all of it could stand alone as an excuse.
But something tells me Paul wants a reason that’s prettier.
“When I was in high school,” I say, “there was this literary magazine for students across the country. Your teacher could nominate you to submit something, and if the judges chose your submissionas exemplary, you got to go on a group trip to meet Michelle Obama.”
“Did you meet her?” Paul asks.
“I made my teacher submit my poem anonymously, so no. But it did get the exemplary judgment.”
Paul blinks. “Is this story supposed to convince me of your soundness of mind?”
I smirk. “It was about my mom, and it was called ‘my first chance, my last.’ She left our family shortly after I was born. I’m the youngest of five girls, so I took her timing personally and poured a lot of my hurt feelings into that poem. But unless you knew what I was writing about, it was vague enough that it could have been about any number of situations. A first love. A sick relative. A squandered opportunity. That’s actually what the judges said in their review. That my poem was universally resonant.”
Paul nods but keeps silent.
“Anyway,” I go on. “There are some songs we all know the inspiration behind. But I also believe there needs to be room for anonymity. It lends itself to making a song universal, even if its inspiration was incredibly specific. That’s where I think I fit as a writer. Also, I have stage fright and no charisma, and I’m trying to focus more on family.”
Paul cracks a smile. “So what happened to your exemplary poetry?”
“What do you mean?”
He stares at me hard. “Like I said earlier, Paige, I think your lyrics could use some work.”
I must have glossed right over that sentence in the wake of his bonkers record deal suggestion.
“You don’t like my lyrics?” I ask.
“They lack depth,” Paul says. “And genuine emotion. I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me ChatGPT wrote those lyrics.”
He’s not mincing words or trying to soften the blow one bit—probably because it was the only criticism in an otherwise glowing review of my abilities.
I exhale a confused laugh. I’m not sure what to say. Mortification will probably set in as soon as I process what’s happening.
“‘Love is blind,’” he starts, scrunching his eyes closed. “‘But it doesn’t matter much because you’re inside of my mind’?”
“That whole song is admittedly weak,” I defend.
“This one was better.” Paul looks at the ceiling, trying to remember. “‘If you kiss me on the swing set in the park, it’s a secret we’ll give to the dark.’ That line could be workshopped into something not horrible. But then you followed it up with ‘Our love is like a river, the feeling makes me shiver.’ Which was you shooting yourself in the foot.”
Paul watches me, his fatherly look emanatingI’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.
My body’s natural instinct right now is to curl up, protect myself. Limit exposure. “Well,” I sputter. “Of course the lyrics sound stupid when you strip them away from the music like that.”
“I didn’t say they were bad.” Paul rolls his eyes like I’m missing the point. “I said they could use some work. I think you can do better, Paige. I think you can be…” He inclines his head. “Exemplary.”
Even after four years of college, praise coupled with criticism is an emotion my body hasn’t learned to easily digest. But with Stillwater’s reputation for honing their talent instead of going for a quick cash grab, shouldn’t I have anticipated a few notes?
For the past hour, my emotions have been on a hamster wheel that won’t stop spinning. I rest my head in my hands, rubbing at my temples while I try to figure out how to feel. Embarrassed, confused, angry. And disappointed, but not in Paul.
I guess I’m disappointed in myself. For only now realizing thereisn’t a face or even a story behind the words in those eleven songs. They’re just… filler. Fluff.
