Dreamland(38)

I watched her shoulders drop a little before answering. “Right now I’m mostly interested in country-pop. Like early Taylor Swift? But probably more pop than country, if that makes any sense.”

“What have you got so far?”

“I have the top-line melody and some of the lyrics for the chorus. But I’m struggling with everything else.”

“All songs have to start somewhere. Do you have the music written down?”

“I made a recording on my phone. On the piano.” She opened the notebook to the appropriate page, then handed it to me and pointed. “Right here,” she said, before reaching for her phone. After a beat, she pulled up the recording. “This is just for the chorus, okay?”

“Got it.”

She pressed play, and after a couple of seconds, piano chords in a minor key rang out, making me sit up and lean in. I assumed that I’d hear her singing on the recording, but she’d only recorded the piano accompaniment. Leaning toward me, her finger on the page with the scribbled lyrics, she whisper-sang along with the melody, almost as if she was embarrassed to be heard.

There wasn’t much to the song at that point—maybe ten or fifteen seconds—but it was indeed enough to remind me of something Taylor Swift might have written when she was starting out. It mirrored the thoughts of a woman who, after a breakup, realizes that she’s better than ever and is flourishing on her own. Not a new idea, but one that would resonate with an audience—particularly females—since it spoke to the universal truth of accepting oneself. It was a theme that never grew old, especially when set to a hooky melody that would make everyone want to sing along.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s a fantastic start,” I said. “I really like it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” I said. “What were you thinking of after this? Music or lyrics?”

“That’s kind of where I’m stuck. I’ve tried a lot of things, but nothing seems to be working. It’s like because I’m not sure of the lyrics, I’m not sure about the music, and vice versa.”

“That’s common in the early stages.”

“What do you do when it happens to you?”

“I start trying things, without editing or judging myself. I think it’s important to give every idea that comes to me a shot, no matter how weird,” I said. “So let’s do that, okay?”

I listened to the recording again, following along with the lyrics. I listened a third, then a fourth time, absently strumming my guitar. When I shut off the recording and played the music on my guitar alone, I let my instincts take over. Morgan stayed quiet as variations began to sprout and overlap in my head. I strung together a few new chords to follow the chorus, but they didn’t feel right—too generic. I tried again, but the next attempt felt awkward. I kept noodling and experimenting for a while, forgetting Morgan’s presence as I searched for those critical few bars. Eventually I found the chord progression that seemed to work, then tricked out the rhythm to give it more syncopation. I stopped and played it again and was suddenly sure that the song could be very commercial—maybe even a hit. I ran through it again with greater confidence, catching Morgan’s eye. Before I could ask what she thought, she clapped her hands, bouncing a little in her seat.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “That was amazing!”

“You like it?” I grinned.

“I love it, but watching you and your process was the best part. Hearing you experiment until you found what worked.”

“I only just started.”

“You’ve been playing for almost twenty minutes.”

As usual, time had stopped for me while I lost myself in the music. “But you’re sure you liked it?”

“Loved it. And it even gave me some new ideas for the lyrics.”

“Like what?” I asked.

She launched into the story she wanted to tell and the feeling she wanted to capture. She improvised a couple of catchy phrases that struck me as defiant yet upbeat with a definite hook, and I found myself wondering why I hadn’t gone in that direction. We also played around with the tempo and rhythm, and as we brainstormed I could tell she had far more of a gift than she gave herself credit for. Her instinct for commercial music was well honed, and when she broke down the lyrics and the melody for the first stanza, the floodgates opened and the song took on a momentum of its own. An hour passed, then another. As we worked, I could feel her excitement growing. “Yes!” she’d exclaim. “Just like that!” Or “Can you try something like this?” while humming a bar or two. Or “How about this for the lyrics?” And every now and then, she’d have me sing the song from the beginning. She sat close to me, her leg warm against my own as she scribbled lyrics in the notebook, crossing out rejected words or phrases. Little by little we worked our way to the finish, fading out in the same minor key in which the song opened. By the time we stopped, the sky beyond the sliding glass door had turned from blue to white, shot through with pink highlights. When she turned to me, she couldn’t hide her joy.

“I can’t believe it.”

“It went well,” I said, meaning it.

“I still want to hear it one more time from the beginning. I want to record the whole thing in one go, too, so I don’t forget.”