Page 88 of Wild Eyes
When Ford told me his daughter was the driving force behind working with me and that she wanted to be involved in producing the record, it surprised me. But somehow, even at only thirteen years old, she has a vision. An idea.
As someone who’s been told over and over again that she doesn’t need to have her own ideas, I respect the hell out of Ford for including her. I already liked him, but watching him now makes me understand him. This album is a special project for me. But it’s a special project for the father and daughter across from me too.
She points at the sheets. “These are all boring, sappy love songs.”
Ford shrugs. “People like love songs.”
She turns to me. “Are love songs what you want to sing?”
I blink a few times, searching her petite face. “I…I don’t know. I’m in a period of discovery, I guess.”
Cora sighs down at the discarded pages. “What you need arefuck yousongs. Songs that hurt. No more Auto-Tune. Your voice is sweet enough already. You could tell someone to go die, and they’d say thank you.”
“Cora.” Ford groans and drops his head into his hands.
I laugh. “No, it’s okay. I get what she’s saying. I wish I could write my own songs.”
Cora glances up at me. “Who said you can’t?”
My mouth opens to sayeveryone, but that might come across as more self-pity than is necessary. Ultimately, I’m responsible for my life and my actions.
“Just haven’t tried to do it. Like instruments. I’m a one-trick pony.”
Cora tosses the last of the sheets onto the table and flops back, looking every bit the teenager she is. “Your voice is your instrument. You don’t need to be good at everything, but I bet you’ve got something to say. You should say it.”
My lips quirk. She’s so matter-of-fact. She’s excited—eager, even—but not manic. Cora’s fucking cool—and judging by the way Ford is smirking at her, he must think so too.
“Maybe I should.”
Their matching eyes slice up at me. “Yeah?” Ford asks. “This is your album. Your call. I know when we talked last week, you didn’t seem keen on it. I’m not going to force you to do anything you’re not on board with.”
That sentiment strikes a heavy blow. No producer haseversaid that to me before.
I watch them, shimmying my shoulders as I straighten. I feel more in control of my destiny every day.
This is my album.
This is my career.
This is my call.
I nod once and steeple my hands as I gaze down at the discarded songs on the table. The ones that mean nothing to me. Written to top charts and nothing more.
There’s nothing wrong with them, per se. They represent the old me—pretty and polished and curated for mass consumption.
The woman I’m becoming, though? She’s not.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to try.”
And as I say it out loud, I feel more sure of myself than ever.
Nestled between the tree roots, I sit on the log with a coil-bound notebook laid across my lap and a pen in my hand. For three days, I’ve been trying to write something.Anything.
For three days, I have written nothing.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here, only that it seems like an eternity and the page remains blank. Which makes me feel remarkably stupid for ever thinking I could just sit down and write a song.
With a heavy sigh, I lay the pen down on the lined sheet and close my eyes. I listen to the birds trill, the water ripple, the light rustle of leaves. It’s more overcast than sunny today. Moodier than the bluebird skies and bright yellow sun that has graced the valley for the past ten days.
