Burning Bridges by Anna Adams

Author:Anna Adams
Language: fra
Format: epub
Publisher: Pronoun

CHAPTER 4

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I WAS TERRIBLE AT the piano.Matt kept encouraging me, but after two weeks, I knew the piano wasn’t for me. Still, he was so sweet, and he really believed I should learn this awful instrument. I couldn’t say no because I was still striving to get him to see me as a potential girlfriend. If he liked the freakin’ piano then so did I. How did he honestly expect me to concentrate on this instrument when all I could see were his gorgeous eyes?

“Let’s give the piano a break and concentrate on your song.” Matt closed the lid of the piano and turned to me. “Have you been working on the lyrics?”

“I started to, then realized you were much better qualified at this than I was.” I smiled obligingly.

“I see.” He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil from the top of the piano and handed them to me. “Let’s take this slow. You said you wanted to write a song about the new you, so write down the first words that come to mind about the image you want to project.”

I stared at the blank piece of paper, and my mind was just as blank. Really, couldn’t Matt be all about his good looks and less about the essence of life? Who cares about his brains when he’s all that?

“Go ahead,” he urged. What would I be? Fire.

Red.

Hot.

Anger.

Frustration at being held behind by this cookie-cutter image, breaking walls, breaking barriers, flying away, wings. Freedom.

I gave him back his sheet of paper, and he surveyed its content in silence.

“That’s a good first step,” he declared. “Now write down the things you don’t want.”

That was easy.

Cowardice.

Forgotten.

Unknown.

Anonymous.

“OK, now try writing sentences.”

Try as I might, I couldn’t write sentences with these words that had any kind of harmony.

“I’m not telling you to write the song. Just sentences,” Matt insisted.

“I can’t, OK?” I shouted, exasperated. “Why don’t you just write them? You’ve already got a gazillion ideas, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you want to be a real artist?” He was frustrated, and I hated him for just a moment. Then, I didn’t because it was too hard to detest his handsome face, his selflessness, and his kindness.

“Define ‘real.’”

“An artist that participates in the process,” he explained. “Someone who writes or co-writes the lyrics and you know . . . just participates. Doesn’t stand back and sing whatever sounds good.”

“A lot of famous singers don’t write their lyrics or play an instrument and are still famous,” I argued.

“But those who do defy the ages,” Matt answered pointedly.I knew he was right, but I just didn’t have that kind of talent, and actually, truthfully I didn’t want to bother with that. If he could just write a hit song and get it over with!

“Those who gain respect from the public, they don’t just sing whatever’s handed to them,” Matt continued, determined to win me over to his cause. “You want to be famous, really famous. I get that, although I don’t think you know what you’re in for but—”

“Are you regretting your fame, Matt?” I asked, bluntly.

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