Page 19 of Collide
I smile, missing our family dog, Bundy, and laugh at his football update, then draft a quick response.
After the meeting with the executives at Pacific Records, Mark and I head downtown to Ocean Studios.
The room hums with quiet intensity, softly lit with warm amber lights casting cozy shadows across the room. Sonia leans forward, her sharp eyes focused on the monitor as she adjusts levels, her fingers moving deftly over the mixing console. Michelle sits beside her, headphones snug over her ears, nodding gently in rhythm, occasionally pausing to make careful notes.
I’ve been in the booth for over an hour, laying down tracks piece by painstaking piece. My throat is scratchy from recording endless layers—harmonies, ad-libs, backing vocals—each take blending into the next as we chase perfection.
This is it, the final touches to my debut U.S. album, the culmination of months spent pouring every ounce of myself into music that I hope will resonate with the world.
Standing in the center of the soundproof room, I close my eyes, listening as the latest track fills the space through the studio speakers. The melody wraps around me, warm and familiar yet fresh, like an extension of my own heartbeat, resonating deep in my chest. When the final notes fade into silence, I open my eyes slowly to see Mark leaning against the sofa in the control room, tablet glowing softly in his hands as he scribbles notes for marketing.
“I feel like we’re still missing something,” I call from inside the booth, tapping a restless finger against the mic stand. “What do you think?”
“You could definitely use something a little more upbeat,” Sonia agrees, sliding her headphones off and shaking out her sleek, platinum bob. Her sharp eyes study me through the glass, sensing my frustration. “How’s the writing going?”
“Okay,” I lie, forcing a smile. Truthfully, writing isn’tgoingat all. Most of these songs are resurrected from notebooks I filled years ago—lyrics that didn’t quite fit my first album but have finally found their moment. Michelle and Sonia have worked their magic, transforming my raw words into polished melodies. Yet I haven’t written anything new since my mom died; grief drained me dry, and I’ve spent all my energy clawing back from the pit, leaving little room for creativity.
“Maybe something deeper, more seductive. Something sexy and edgy,” Michelle suggests thoughtfully, twirling a pencil between her fingers as she leans back in her chair.
As if I have genuine experience with that. My love life consists of failed dates as a teenager with boys who quickly lost interest. My songs speak of love in wistful metaphors, inspired by secondhand stories from friends or characters in novels, never my own tangled heart.
“I don’t know.” I sigh softly, glancing down at the scuffed wooden floor, avoiding their hopeful gazes.
“Elena, you’re in New York City, one of the most inspiring places on the planet,” Michelle urges gently. “Step outside, breathe it in. Let the city inspire something in you.”
“Exactly,” Sonia chimes in, her voice confident. “The big L—it sells!”
Love.
The eternal muse, a theme universal yet painfully personal. I’ve sung about it countless times, but always from a distance, a safe observer rather than an active participant. Dread seeps out of me.
“We could bring in some guys from Nashville,” Michelle adds casually, flipping through contacts on her phone. My eyes widen sharply.
She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Not like that, girl, relax. Writers. Nashville has some of the best songwriters in thebusiness. I know a few who’d love to collaborate, help you flesh things out.”
I hesitate, uncertainty knotting in my throat. “I’ll think about it,” I stammer, exhaling heavily. “For now, let’s run through a few more ad-libs on ‘Sparks.’”
Michelle and Sonia nod simultaneously, headphones slipping back over their ears, fingers dancing quickly across the soundboard. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself in front of the microphone, chasing one more perfect take. Hoping somewhere within these four padded walls, I’ll rediscover the spark I’ve lost.
Mark glances up, smiling reassuringly. “Initial feedback is looking really good on the first few tracks,” he shares, scrolling through comments from the advance listening session. “They especially love ‘Rise’ and ‘Sparks’—strong contenders for singles.”
I take another deep breath, absorbing the information. “What about ‘Nightfall’? That one’s personal.”
Mark nods knowingly. “Mixed reactions. Some think it’s too introspective for a single, but others say it could become your signature track.”
Michelle removes her headphones, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I agree with Mark. ‘Midnight’ is my vote—it’s fun and meaningful. ‘Nightfall’ might not appeal to everyone, but if you’re comfortable sharing it widely, it could resonate deeply.”
“Or it could become a hidden gem,” Sonia adds, swiveling in her chair. “Something your true fans discover and hold on to.”
Mark stands, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you decide, we trust your instincts. This isyourstory to tell.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. The studio feels less like a workspace and more like a haven where creativity flourishes among trusted friends. “Let’s listen one more time,” I suggest, smiling at each of them. “Then I’ll know for sure.”
Sonia grins, turning back to her board. Michelle offers me an encouraging thumbs up, while Mark resumes his position, ready to capture any final thoughts. The music fills the room again, every note confirming that, no matter the decisions ahead, my vision is being honored, supported, and celebrated.
“A few more tweaks and we’re on track for the digital album drop on the 10th of September,” Mark starts, scrolling through his phone and flicking through his laptop as Kylie walks in.
“You’re also set to perform ‘Ignite’ from your previous album onRise and Shine America, plus an interview segment as Australia’s darling, and promoting the upcoming album,” she announces nonchalantly.
