The Masked Truth

Chapter Nine

I've submerged from the depths of my dark corner to bring you this chapter, so I hope you like it! If I don't see appear soon - Happy Halloween x

Chapter Nine

Sometimes the words don't flow to the page like you intend them to. Every song I write has a unique process. Words and phrases may come to mind, an emotion, theme, melody, and sometimes nothing at all. Then there's the phase of what I'm currently going through when I'm writing. Like, a book, notepad, sticky notes, and scrap piece of paper. The utensils I use also have a significant effect. There's the pink pen, the blue one, the fine liner, sharpie, classic pen, the click pen, the fountain pen or even the old school pencil that never seems to be sharpened. Writing is an art with no defined method.

That leads me to this point; writing sometimes sucks, and sometimes I wish I could discard this album and start all over again – that means scrapping the first two so that I can have a free escape to new material that goes all over the place. Writing is a sense of freedom, but of late, seems for of a burden and a trap.

I'm at a crossroads. I want to give up, I want to perceiver, procrastinate, to be determine to achieve everything I've ever wanted and more. I will finish this new album they want. Not because I owe it, but because I know I can do it. A part of growing up is learning to do the things we don't always want to do.

Standing up from my position on the floor, I stretch and shake my tired numb limbs. I remove the lackey band from around my wrist so that I can tie my hair up into a tight bun.

This means war, and I'm going to need supplies.

I abandon my post on the floor in search of a notepad, sticky notes, coloured pens, blue tack and scissors. I jog into my bedroom and rummage through the draw in search of useful things. When I have collected everything, I return to the floor and begin to order everything.

I draw a large bubble and write Inspiration in big fancy pink letters. I then cut the bubble cloud out and blue tack it to the wall. In the scraps, I start writing dot points that I could use in the songs – coming of age, loving another, loving yourself – then branching off with lyrics and quotes that I find inspirational.

When my head is a jumble of unproductivity, I find it easier to sort this mess out on a blank canvas before I try piecing it together. If all else fails, a guitar and random singing helps as well.

I continue to scribble down words and tunes until my back hurts from bending over and my fingers are itching to play along with the guitar. Hopefully with what I've brainstormed, I can apply some structure to it.

I grab one of the cushions from the couch to rest my head on. The floor feels cold on my backs and thighs, but not enough so I freeze. My fingers find the strings and I start playing random cords until something makes sense. I strum the strings and tap my foot along the ground with my phone on record.

"There was a couple of times that I worried, the feelings didn't feel right, but I searched for the words to pour out my heart." I speed up the tune. "But I found nothing at all. What does that mean? No words to express you, no feelings at all."

I pause, mulling over the next line. "Like a boat on the ocean far away. Are you my salvation or the cause of my destruction?" I tap the side of the guitar and hum a few notes, but nothing else comes to mind.

"Is that too depressing for a pop song?" I ask aloud.

"Probably," I mutter darkly.

I stop playing those tunes and try something a little different. I change some of the notes to a lighter sound and into a quicker, snappier tune which seems to take off easier.