For The Camera

Two

Nathan

Your lips are poetry, your eyes a song/You taste so right but I know it's wrong...

Groaning, I slam my notebook shut and lean back in my seat, rubbing at my eyes and fighting the urge to storm out of the studio. I've been here for almost three hours now, and aside from a mediocre, typical pop beat to go with the lyrics, I managed to get only two lines down on paper, both of which I don't like. It's frustrating, to say the least, especially considering the fact that this is what it's been like for the past few weeks.

A quiet chuckle sounds from somewhere behind me, but I don't even bother turning around. Instead, I only mutter: "It's not funny, Nay."

"Come on, I'm sure it's not that bad," she airily says. "Tell me what you've got so far."

At her request, I flip to the page I've just been on again and read what might be the beginning of a verse out loud, almost stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out. They feel stiff in my mouth, clumsy. Not like something I would say, even though they all poured onto the paper from the tip of my pen just moments ago.

When I don't get a reply right away, I spin my chair around to look at Naira and see her reaction. She has stretched herself out on the small couch with a bag of salted peanuts in one hand. Since she's staring straight at the ceiling, there's no way for me to really see her expression.

"That bad?" I ask.

"No... Not bad. Just kind of weird. I don't know," she says and tosses another peanut into her mouth. "I mean, the lyrics sound nice and all, but they aren't you."

I grimace, letting my head loll against the back of the leather chair I'm sitting in. Having Naira as my best friend comes with one big advantage and one big disadvantage. The advantage: She always tells me exactly what she thinks. The disadvantage: She always tells me exactly what she thinks.

It's refreshing to have someone tell me their blunt, unfiltered opinion, but on the other hand her words, truthful as they are, can sting.

"I guess not," I say. "But that hasn't been a problem before either, has it? Like, Take You Home wasn't that genuine either, but that's the song everyone seemed to love."

Naira shrugs, which, coming from her, is as good as a verbal You're right.

And I know I am; Take You Home was my first song to top the charts worldwide and it's about... well, taking a girl home after a party. Which is something I have never done and probably will never do.

The unforeseen success of that single has taught me two lessons. One: I have what it takes to be a musician. And two: To be a musician, authentic is the last thing I need to be. I have taken both to heart and so far they have been accurate.

"So far the song isn't horrible though, is it?" I inquire.

"Of course not. Your fans will eat it up," Naira answers and finally sits up, dark curls spilling onto her shoulders as she does. Now I can finally see her face and the expression on it; it's worry, just like I expected. "Is that all you've written today?"

I nod, earning a sympathetic look from her.

Carefully, she asks: "When is your album supposed to be released again?"

"In, like, four months."

"And how many songs have you written so far?"

"One," I sigh. "One song and these few lines."

Naira grimaces, falling back against the couch's backrest. "Oh."

"Yeah," I mutter.

I know that it doesn't look too good right now. My manager, Murphy, keeps asking for updates on my writing progress and when I want to come to the studio to start recording. I have hinted at the fact that I'm struggling a little and he has offered to arrange some co-writers for me, but I politely declined. As unauthentic as my songs are, at least they're written by me, and I want to keep it that way.