“What exactly are you getting at?” I ask, lifting my head.
Paul clears his throat. “I liked what you said about music with universality. But you’ve taken it a step too far. Right now, there’s nothing about your lyrics that makes me feel the least bit moved.”
His words are pelting me, leaving behind invisible bruises. I used to think my professors could be harsh, but I guess that wasnothing?
Paul shifts his elbows back to his knees. “Good musicians have never been shy about writing themselves into their music, public facing or not. I just listened to what you claim is your entire discography and didn’t glean a single thing aboutyoufrom it. Whichyousay is the point, andIsay is the problem.”
Fuck, he’s right.
The lyrics are impersonal. They could be about anybody, from anybody, to anybody, and not in a good way. I wrote the same sentiments you’d find on drugstore greeting cards.
“Do you want me to rewrite the lyrics to every song?” I ask.
“I want you to make your lyricsabout something. I want the words to sound likeyouwrote them. That’s how we get a record label or recording artist to stop and pay attention, and that’s how we keep them interested in your work in a year, five years, ten.”
Paul stands again. I trail him with my eyes as he goes to his desk and opens a drawer. He shuffles around, grabs something, and returns to his chair, then drops three stacks of paper onto the coffee table between us in quick succession.
He points to the first. “That’s a publishing contract. That’s what you said you wanted in your email. You sign with Stillwater for one year, we’ll try to sell your songs, and you walk out of here with an advance on royalties. A small one.”
My heart thunders.That’s all I wanted, that’s all I ever wanted—
“This one,” Paul says, pointing to the contract in the middle,“means you walk out of here with a bigger advance, but I bring in a lyricist to workshop your songs.”
He flicks his eyes to me. I swallow.
Call me possessive, but I don’t love the idea of a lyricist I’ve never met and with whom I have no personal connection rewriting my music. I like cowriting with my friends, but handing over my work with the knowledge that someone’s going to basically overhaul it? No thank you.
Paul’s fighting a smirk, like he knows.
“What’s the third option?” I ask.
His hand hovers over a totally blank, seemingly symbolic piece of paper. “I give you a couple months to rewrite your own lyrics. We meet again, I listen, and then we go from there.”
I chew on my lip. Glance back down at the stacks of paper.
I walked through this door—I sent out those emails—wanting a simple publishing deal. An advance to cushion my bank account so I can stop picking up doubles and have more free time to write songs. I don’t have any student debt thanks to my scholarship, but I don’t have money either. I want the chance to collaborate with Harry and my other friends. I want to build connections in the industry, book songwriter sessions, figure out who I love to work with.
But I can’t contribute to the music being made right now if I don’t have anytime.
And of course, there’s Folly’s situation to consider. She’s due in a few months and won’t ask the father for financial support. She won’t even tell me who the father is. But I know she needs money, and it’s not like our other sisters have cash to spare.
My sisters spent so much of their youth taking care of me. Mom was gone; Dad was always working. They all but raised me. Now that I’m grown, it would be nice if I was able to return the favor, even once.
That’s exactly what Paul’s offering me. If I accept the smalleradvance today, I could walk out of this room with more money at my fingertips than I’ve ever possessed in my life. Someday soon, a song I wrote could be out in the world. Only I’m not sure how much of myself I’d recognize in it by that point, which is—unsettling.
Maybe Idowant my music to have a signature.
“I’ll rewrite the lyrics,” I say, as much to myself as I say it to him, while I simultaneously mourn the cash and security I could be walking away with.
Paul nods, visibly pleased. “You have yourself a handshake deal.” He scoops the contracts back into a single pile.
The heels of my palms skim over my knees. This is a huge risk. He could change his mind, and then I’ll have nothing.
I’ll have fallen in love with a future I was too late to claim.
Paul seems to read me as he stands. “Paige. I don’t like the idea of you walking out of here unsigned any more than you do. Especially knowing you’ve got other inquiries out there with bigger publishers, who have as much respect for Marty Maitland’s instincts as I do. But backing you into a corner isn’t the answer.”
I study him. “Despite all odds, you’re a pretty decent guy, Paul Friedman.”
