Chapter 1: Beaverbrook

New Year, New Challenges

Wednesday, January 1, 2014 · Beaverbrook · Private

Well, hey, Carly.

That feels ridiculous. Who else would I be talking to?

I bought myself a subscription to a website called ‘Hush Y’all,’ because I suppose that’s who I am now. A woman who pays the internet to protect her secrets. The little heart-shaped padlock was a nice touch, and it also called me Carly when I logged in. I know it’s because I typed my own name into the box, but I liked seeing it anyway.

I thought I should have somewhere to write things down that don’t have to become songs. Or something cheerful for people to read on their phones. Sometimes I have a whole day, and by the time I’ve decided which little piece of it to put online, I’ve almost convinced myself that was the whole day.

So this is a New Year’s resolution, I guess. Write down what actually happened. How I actually felt about it. Try to tell myself the truth. And no one gets to read it but me. I probably never will. Maybe thirty years from now. Maybe.

So ... let’s get started:

I am so excited about London I can barely stand it, and every time I think about going, I need to pee.

Very dignified. Excellent start.

We get there Tuesday. The premiere is Wednesday. I’ve checked that approximately forty times, along with the location of my passport, which continues to be exactly where I put it.

My passport. I didn’t even have one this time last year. I have never been out of the country before. Never. Not even thought about it. And now my first trip is to London for the premiere of a movie with Chloë Goodman in it, produced by Sam Bradwell and my voice sings over the titles of the movie.

I keep thinking about sitting in the theater when “A Woman’s Work” comes on. Everybody will be looking at the screen, which is good, because I have no idea what my face is going to do. I’ve seen the title sequence. On the tiny screen on my phone. It’ll be a bit different seeing my name on the big screen. Well, Kayla’s name. I might cry. I might grin like an idiot at a completely inappropriate moment. I have no idea. There ought to be somebody I can warn beforehand.

It’s a beautiful song. I can say that without feeling like I’m boasting, because I didn’t write it. Harry and Ellie did. The music was already there when I came to sing it, and I remember listening and wondering where I was supposed to fit. There was so much happening. Those strings, and the guitars, and the way it all built. I could hear why they’d written it that way, but hearing what a song needs and being able to give it that are two different things.

They let me sing it my way first. Then we worked on theirs.

Some of that was hard. Harder than I wanted to admit. There were things they wanted me to do that felt strange in my mouth, and I kept wanting to slide back into the way I’d naturally sing a line. Then I’d suggest something, and they’d try it out. The finished version has a little bit of everything, and I love it. I really do. But getting there made me realize how much I do without thinking, just because that’s how I’ve always done it.

I want to find out what else I can do.

That’s the exciting part.

But that’s also what’s making everybody at I-40 a little nervous. Well, that’s what’s making Nathan nervous. He only cares about one thing. Money. Sales. Airtime.

Okay, that’s three things.

But first, London. And the after-party.

At the top of the tallest building in London.

The Shard.

I looked at pictures. Then I looked at more pictures because I thought perhaps I’d got the wrong building or misunderstood which part of the building they meant.

Nope. Right building. And all the way up there at the top.

It’s a long way up.

They’re going to put me and my guitar way above London and ask me to sing while movie stars stand around being movie stars. There will be cameras, too, so if I forget every word of the song, we can preserve the occasion for future generations.

Glenn has explained the opportunities. I understand, I really do. There will be people there who could help make a tour happen. And the performance will go online, so it’s important that all of this reaches further than the people actually in the room. But the people in the room matter. A lot.

I listened to Glenn very carefully as he explained this again today, while a much louder part of my brain kept saying, Carly, honey, you’re going to sing in the sky!

I hope I get a minute to look out the windows before somebody needs me to be somewhere or do something. I want to remember being there. The actual being there, with my own two feet on the floor and London underneath them.

Preferably a very solid floor.

And I’m looking forward to Thursday. Seeing all the sights. Playing at being a tourist. It’s all ‘content’, of course. For the fans on Twitter and Instagram. But still ... I get to see London.

Shame I don’t have someone to see it with other than Glenn.

Then there’s the album.

Number three.

I still get a little thrill from writing that. I remember wanting somebody to let me make one.

I’m so proud of the first two. I need to say that before I start complaining, even here. Those songs mattered to me. They still do. And when somebody tells me a song helped them through a breakup, or that they play it in the car with their best friend, I don’t stand there wishing I’d made something more sophisticated. I’m happy. That’s a wonderful thing to have been part of somebody’s day.

I understand why the label wants more of that. They know who bought those records. They know which stations played them. They can hear a certain kind of song and picture what to do with it.

When I say I want to try something different and they ask me what, I don’t have a nice, useful answer yet.

“Something real good” probably isn’t much help in a meeting.

But that’s what I mean.

Working on “A Woman’s Work” made me curious in a way I haven’t been able to switch off. I keep listening for things now. What is the guitar doing underneath a voice? What happens when everything gets quiet? Whether a song needs another instrument or whether everybody ought to stop playing for a second and let the singer finish the thought.

I want time with Harry and Ellie to try things. Bring in those unfinished songs, play them, pull them apart if we have to. Let somebody suggest something I wouldn’t have thought of. Maybe I discover I hate it. Maybe I discover I love it so much I can’t imagine the song any other way.