Look at Me
track #3: too many times
After finally crawling into bed around two in the morning, I lie awake, tossing and turning. There’s no way around it: I have to return the journal immediately, and I can’t use any of the bits that I wrote. I could face all manner of lawsuits: copyright infringement, plagiarism, intellectual property theft. Not to mention a feeling of guilt so strong it might eventually kill me.
So my only choice is to return the journal and pretend I never read it.
Unless I can convince Niall to co-write with me. Then these songs won’t be for nothing. Then I won’t have poured myself onto paper only to throw the words away.
By the time I leave for the studio, I’ve decided: this afternoon, I’m going to return the journal. It’s tucked away in my bag, next to my own writing journal, which is now several pages fuller than it was yesterday. And maybe when I hand the journal back to Niall, I’ll be able to work up the courage to tell him that I read one of his songs, finished it, and think we should record it together.
I meet Candice in the lobby and immediately spot the question on her lips. She wants to know what’s inside the journal. But I shake my head at her; we can’t talk about it here, not where someone might overhear us.
“So,” Candice says as soon as the studio door shuts behind us. “What happened to you last night? You look hungover. Are you hungover?”
I shake my head and reach into my bag. Instead of pulling out Niall’s journal, I pull out my own. Wordlessly, I open it to what I wrote last night and hand it to Candice.
She sits down on the couch and begins to read. I hover by the door and watch. I wonder if, in the silent room, Candice can hear how fast my heart is beating. Even though these words aren’t all my own, even though they go with something that someone else—a stranger, nonetheless—wrote, I’ve never been this afraid to share my work before. I’m afraid of how I’ll feel if Candice doesn’t like it. It’ll be like she doesn’t like a part of me.
Finally, after what feels like hours, she lowers the book to her lap and looks at me. Just looks at me for a minute, looks at me like she never has before, not in all our years our friendship.
“Damn, Minna,” she says when she breaks the silence. I let out a deep breath. “This is great,” she continues. “Seriously, Minna. This is great. Really fucking great.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say drily.
“Sorry, it’s just…” She shakes her head and glances down at my journal again, like she’s searching for the words. “This stuff is so romantic. It’s so different for you. I never would’ve expected it. Do you have melodies?”
Because it’s not mine, I want to say. Except, that’s not entirely true, is it? They weren’t mine at first, these lines, these songs. But I put so much of myself into them—they contain only shadows now of what they were when I first found them.
“In my head, but it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s trash, all of it.” My voice cracks. I swallow, forcing myself to keep it together. “It’s not mine.”
Candice frowns. “What do you mean, it’s not yours? This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but…” I shake my head. “It’s Niall’s. His journal. I finished some of his songs, and I just got into it and—”
Candice cuts me off with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t make it not yours. People write stuff based on other things all the time, don’t they? It’s derivative.”
I let myself fall onto the couch next to her. “I don’t think it works like that if the person’s alive and hasn’t used the material.”
The room falls silent as Candice thinks. This is a role reversal in our friendship. Usually she’s the one pulling crazy schemes, making unexpected decisions, and I’m the quiet one, the one observing, the one figuring out where to go from here. But now that job has fallen on Candice.
“Okay,” she says eventually. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
I hug my knees to my chest and listen to her plan.
So my only choice is to return the journal and pretend I never read it.
Unless I can convince Niall to co-write with me. Then these songs won’t be for nothing. Then I won’t have poured myself onto paper only to throw the words away.
By the time I leave for the studio, I’ve decided: this afternoon, I’m going to return the journal. It’s tucked away in my bag, next to my own writing journal, which is now several pages fuller than it was yesterday. And maybe when I hand the journal back to Niall, I’ll be able to work up the courage to tell him that I read one of his songs, finished it, and think we should record it together.
I meet Candice in the lobby and immediately spot the question on her lips. She wants to know what’s inside the journal. But I shake my head at her; we can’t talk about it here, not where someone might overhear us.
“So,” Candice says as soon as the studio door shuts behind us. “What happened to you last night? You look hungover. Are you hungover?”
I shake my head and reach into my bag. Instead of pulling out Niall’s journal, I pull out my own. Wordlessly, I open it to what I wrote last night and hand it to Candice.
She sits down on the couch and begins to read. I hover by the door and watch. I wonder if, in the silent room, Candice can hear how fast my heart is beating. Even though these words aren’t all my own, even though they go with something that someone else—a stranger, nonetheless—wrote, I’ve never been this afraid to share my work before. I’m afraid of how I’ll feel if Candice doesn’t like it. It’ll be like she doesn’t like a part of me.
Finally, after what feels like hours, she lowers the book to her lap and looks at me. Just looks at me for a minute, looks at me like she never has before, not in all our years our friendship.
“Damn, Minna,” she says when she breaks the silence. I let out a deep breath. “This is great,” she continues. “Seriously, Minna. This is great. Really fucking great.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say drily.
“Sorry, it’s just…” She shakes her head and glances down at my journal again, like she’s searching for the words. “This stuff is so romantic. It’s so different for you. I never would’ve expected it. Do you have melodies?”
Because it’s not mine, I want to say. Except, that’s not entirely true, is it? They weren’t mine at first, these lines, these songs. But I put so much of myself into them—they contain only shadows now of what they were when I first found them.
“In my head, but it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s trash, all of it.” My voice cracks. I swallow, forcing myself to keep it together. “It’s not mine.”
Candice frowns. “What do you mean, it’s not yours? This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but…” I shake my head. “It’s Niall’s. His journal. I finished some of his songs, and I just got into it and—”
Candice cuts me off with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t make it not yours. People write stuff based on other things all the time, don’t they? It’s derivative.”
I let myself fall onto the couch next to her. “I don’t think it works like that if the person’s alive and hasn’t used the material.”
The room falls silent as Candice thinks. This is a role reversal in our friendship. Usually she’s the one pulling crazy schemes, making unexpected decisions, and I’m the quiet one, the one observing, the one figuring out where to go from here. But now that job has fallen on Candice.
“Okay,” she says eventually. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
I hug my knees to my chest and listen to her plan.