THE END | Oscar Piastri

50. writers block

Sav's pov

"Oh fuck!"

The clock reads 12:00pm. The exact time I had a meeting scheduled with not only my manager, but the label's owner. I'd slept in.

Oscar woke up early, and called me without considering time zones. It was two in the morning for me and I woke up.

Instead of doing the responsible thing and going back to sleep, I answered him and proceeded to talk with him for the next five hours.

In all fairness, we were planning a vacation.

I roll out of bed, the cold hard wood floor shooting goosebumps up my body. I ignore the chills and pull two random articles of clothing out of my closet. Sweatpants and a random hoodie.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, and slip on a pair of slides before I sprint to my car.

Lila

omw now, I slept in😭

Hurry your ass up the silence is awkward.

When I get there, I see what she means. Every head turns to me when I walk through the door and Crew, the labels owner, clears his throat as I take my seat next to Lila.

"Now that everyone is here." Crew starts, a not-so-subtle jab at me. "The album's release date is November twenty-first, and all the songs should be recorded and complete by October thirty-first." He jumps right to the point.

I nod along, waiting for something else to come but nothing does. "Sounds doable. There's..." I count on my fingers. "Like four months before that deadline. I can make that easy." I shrug both of my shoulders.

"And there needs to be a minimum of fifteen songs on it." Crew adds. I knew there was something else. I press my lips together. "Okay, still doable."

"Not including deluxe. We're looking at a minimum of eighteen songs for the full version." This guy.

I clasp my hands together tightly in front of me. "Got it. Will do." My knuckles turn white.

I haven't written a full song this entire week, only verses of three different songs. I'm still sitting at ten songs, not all of them are particularly great either. This guy wants eight more in four months. That's not even counting the time it'll take to record, so really three and a half. And that's not considering the time for sound production, so really three. And even that isn't considering vacation, so really two.

I have to pull eight songs out of my ass in two months. I couldn't even accomplish that in two years.

"And what happens if the marks aren't met?" Lila asks, fully knowing it's been a slow couple of years for me. "Each song missing is a loss of pay, and each day you miss the deadline of October thirty-first is also a loss of pay." He answered that a little too quickly, and calmly.

I put on a convincing smile. "Perfect."

-★-

"I can't write anything decent. Everything I write sounds like it came from a ten year old who still watches cocomelon." I complain, my hands pulling at my own hair in frustration, my eyes trained on the ceiling.

Nash hums. "Sounds like a severe case of writers block." I turn my head, give him a look that basically says 'no duh!', and turn my gaze back to the ceiling.

He laughs quietly at the look. "What I mean is, have you tried any exercises to fix it? Yoga? Going for a run? Word vomiting?" I shake my head silently.