Chapter 2
June, Now
“I have absolutely zero interest in being a recording artist,” I say.
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 submission as 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 emanating I’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 there isn’t a face or even a story behind the words in those eleven songs. They’re just … filler. Fluff.
“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 was nothing?
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 about you from it.
Which you say is the point, and I say 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 lyrics about something. I want the words to sound like you wrote 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 any time.
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 smaller advance 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 I do want 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.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not that decent. I like money, and I like picking winners. This is just me gambling.”
I privately think he’s decent anyway.
“You’re not going to change your mind,” I ask, “right?”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” Paul confirms. “You’re not going to leave my office and go sign with one of my competitors without talking to me about it first, right?”
“Right.”
He nods. “Go on, then. If I don’t hear from you in two months or so, I’ll call to check in.”
I walk to the door and pull it open, fully aware I’m being dismissed. More as a joke than out of an expectation that he’ll offer a genuine answer, I ask, “Any suggestions on where to start for lyrics with depth?”
“Yeah.” Paul opens his laptop. Without sparing me another glance, he says, “I suggest you start with whoever song number twelve is about.”