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TATE
I stew in my feelings all that evening and into the next day, pissed that I was rejected by a spoiled little rich girl. Kicked out of her penthouse apartment with the threat that she’ll sic her daddy on me.
The very same daddy who hired my ass to perform at her birthday party, not that she cares.
Scarlett Lancaster. Who the hell does she think she is anyway?
I barely get out of bed, let alone leave my shitty little apartment, too worried that I’ve lost my shot at fame yet again. Until I can’t take it anymore and hop in the shower, trying to wash off my anger and frustration over the whole situation.
Yeah, I need to get over it. Life moves on and so do I.
Feeling refreshed once I’m dressed, I order takeout from a shitty Chinese restaurant down the block and gorge myself on too much broccoli beef and chow mein, my mind wandering.
Running through what happened over and over again.
After dinner, I grab the notebook I like to scribble in. The one that is bulging with various lyrics I’ve written over the last few years. I flip through it for a few minutes, reading over some of the lines, mentally noting how much they’ve matured over the years. I guess I’ve evolved.
Look at me go.
Frustration rippling through me, I open up a fresh page, grab a pen, and start writing.
And don’t stop for the next fifteen minutes.
By the time I’m finished, I’m breathing hard. Overwhelmed—but in a good way. I stare at the page I just filled, flipping it to read over the second side.
Well, look at me. I just wrote an entire song.
Inspired, I go on one of those SoundCloud-type sites, cruise through the samples they’ve got available, and zero in on a solid drumbeat that sounds good. I download it before I go and shut all the windows, but I can still hear all the outside noise that only New York provides.
The wail of a siren. The crash of something metal. Some dude yelling and a woman screaming back at him.
I pocket my phone and grab my guitar, making my way to the bathroom. It probably has the best acoustics out of any room in my tiny apartment, and that’s due to it being in the center, surrounded by other rooms and with no windows.
Meaning there won’t be much outside noise interfering with what I want to do.
Once I’m loaded with my bottle of water, the notebook, a pen, my guitar, and my phone, I shut the door and close the toilet lid before I sit.
And play.
Sing a little.
Write some more. Change a few lyrics, scribbling out the old words and adding new ones. I strum my guitar along with the beat of the drum sample over and over, making sure I’ve got the right chords, before I start to sing the song that was in my head only minutes ago in earnest. The lyrics flow out of me, and I’m smiling.
Playing.
Singing.
Until I eventually work up the courage to record what I’ve put together, which is a process. I do it over and over again, cursing out loud when I get something wrong. Kicking the edge of the tub when I hit the wrong chord or mess up the lyrics. It’s a nasty little ordeal that ends up taking me hours, and when I’m finally finished, it’s past one in the morning and I’m literally sweating.
But then I hit play on my phone and listen back to what I’ve got. I’m smiling. Nodding along with the beat. Singing along with the words.
I fucking love it.
It feels good, making something just for myself. Getting my feelings and frustrations out. Creating something out of nothing. Just my thoughts.
About a certain rich girl who drives me out of my mind.
I take a shower with the song playing on repeat on my phone, reveling in the sound. It goes a little harder than the stuff I’ve been working on currently. Not the mellow, introspective, “I need to do better” lyrics I’ve been writing. This is a little more...
