Crazy in Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

tend to go overboard, and I became obsessed with music. Little melodies would occur to me at the most unlikely times—while getting out of the shower, talking on the phone, even trying to fall asleep at night—and I would hop out of the bed or the bathroom or wherever I happened to be and jot them down on the back of a grocery receipt or whatever I could find. And then, when it was more convenient, I would sit down and try to fit words to the melody. Then I would pick up my guitar and pick out the chords I could already hear in my head.
    It wasn’t long before the fame bug hit me. Spending a lot of time banging out tunes puts wild ideas in your head. I saw stardom, I saw fortune ... most of all, I saw the thrill of having talented, well-known performers recording songs I’d written. Sallie Spooner, Incorporated. While my friends were daydreaming about becoming doctors and lawyers or running away to the south of France with the movie star of their choice, I started to picture my name on the label of a record as it went round and round on the turntable.
    The problem was that I had no idea of how songwriters actually got then: songs produced. So I decided to sit it out until golden opportunity came knocking at my door. I didn’t know how or when it would, but somehow I had faith that eventually it would all work out. In the meantime I kept plugging away, turning out song after song. I ended up being the hit of every party I went to, that’s for sure.
    “All things come to she who waits.” Isn’t that a famous expression? In my case it proved to be true. About a week after my less-than-memorable afternoon with Dan Meyer and friend, I was sitting in my room, puttering around and half listening to the radio. It’s amazing how much time I spend doing that. I pretend I’m keeping up with music trends, but really I’m just lazy a lot of the time.
    Anyway, all of a sudden the disc jockey made this announcement that made my ears perk up like a dog’s. He said that the station, one of the largest in New York, was holding a songwriting contest for high school kids living in the city. All you had to do was call this number for more information. . . . I quickly wrote the telephone number down on a scrap of paper. Two seconds later I was dialing it.
    The woman who answered the phone sounded bored, as if she had no idea about all the excitement the announce ment was causing. She explained in a monotone that the contest had two levels. First, one songwriter would be selected from each competing high school in the city. Second, out of those entrants, one would win the citywide competition. Each person or group could only enter one song. The prize was phenomenal: the best song would be recorded by some still-unnamed but well-known rock group.
    I tried to keep the hysteria out of my voice as I gave the woman my name and address so she could send me an application. I was ecstatic! At last, opportunity had come knocking at my door! And they say you can’t get rich and famous just staying at home in your room.
    I spent the next hour howling and squealing to my family, on the telephone to Rachel, and to just about everybody else I could think of to call. But then came the grim reality. None-of the songs I’d already written seemed good enough for this competition. I had to come up with something that was so terrific, so inspired, that it couldn’t lose. Not when the stakes were so high!
    At the risk of sounding like a temperamental, complain ing artist, I found that the next few days were hell. Inspiration simply would not come. The only melodies that drifted into my mind were those that were already famous. I tried listening to all my old records. I tried sitting in complete silence. I even tried sitting in a room that was completely silent and pitch black. It just wouldn’t come, and I was rapidly becoming miserable.
    So when my friend Sharon Burke called to invite me to a party the following Friday night, I was relieved. It was a