#9: Metaphor

This office was for one-on-one meetings with trainees. That meant no desktop computer. It was well-lit, with potted plants colouring the white and grey room. A tissue box sat on the left-hand side as one sat behind it.

Karu took this desk. His office had personal belongings like family photos and a laptop for digital notation - likely candidates for theft. He kept his eye on the marked pile of lyrics; every moment inched him closer to a shocking middle. Among this class were good writers, and some mediocre, but of those who emulated Karu’s writing style, one stood out. He pulled it out by the corner so he remembered which one it was.

“You used flowery language. Why did you decide on it?” he asked a different student.

“To make it sound more refined,” the student replied.

He kept his tone friendly, but that didn’t stop his bluntness from escaping. “Using flowery language across the page means people won’t understand what you’re saying. Does that sound refined to you?”

She froze. Not like he hadn’t said it to his imitators before. But hearing it directly was a blow to her chest.

“You’re not in trouble; it’s only the drafting stage. Translate this into simple wording, disregarding the rhythm you had in mind.” He handed back the sheet. “Then, see Matt for a second pair of eyes. Ask him what he thinks.”

The student wiped her tears away and bunched up as she retrieved her work. Karu pulled a tissue from the box and offered it. She took it, then left the office.

It was finally time. He poked his head out the door and called Jeff’s name. As Jeff entered, he went through the motions of making a student comfortable. Pulling out the seat, and small talk. He picked up Jeff’s work and reread it, in case he missed something. No, it was all there.

Jeff grasped at his own wrist, waiting for his dreams to shatter at any small provocation. He refrained from speaking unless he overspoke Karu.

Karu kept the paper in his hand. “You did something unique with your draft. Firstly, your chord progression is good, and I like the lyrics at this stage. The time signature was a great help when we played it ourselves.”

That was a relief. Jeff thought he would faint if a worse criticism came up.

“But what caught my eye was this,” Karu continued. He turned the paper to Jeff’s perspective, then pointed at the musical notation. “The most professional songwriters use this trick to remember how their chorus goes. Did you research Matlena?”

“No,” said Jeff.

Karu eyed him. “Ardi?”

Jeff shook his head.

“Who’s your inspiration for this trick?”

Jeff smiled coyly. “I don’t want to offend you.”

“I’ve worked with some of the worst in the industry. They, alone, offend me. You’re a good trainee as far as I can tell. So who’s your inspiration?”

Jeff blushed and broke eye contact for a second. “You, actually.”

Karu froze. He took a deep breath. “That explains it.”

Instead of asking what Karu meant, Jeff waited for further input. His mind suspected whether Karu was being sarcastic, or pointed.

“Don’t tell anyone, but - congratulations. You figured out my songwriting style.”

Jeff covered his mouth to stop screaming. “That was the answer?”

“Not just that. It was your use of metaphor that everyone else in Bung’ke is scared to touch.” Karu tapped his pen on the chorus. “This is pristine; absolutely nothing wrong with the story of a love-blind professor. Before I saw the notation, I played it my way, and realised I’d played it wrong.”

Jeff wanted to joke how now, Karu would have to announce the answer to the public, but he failed to hold back his tears. He stayed with his head in his hands, shaking. Karu offered a tissue, smiling.