[Intro — typewriter, soft rain, a low piano note] [Spoken, measured] Every story needs a beginning. That’s what they told me. So I went looking for hers. [Page turns] Found a woman. Found a phone. Found a conversation. And twenty-two songs about what happened next. [Pause] The trouble is… She can read this. [Verse 1 — intimate, rhythmic] I was hired as a narrator, Or perhaps I volunteered. There was no official contract, And my role was never clear. She arrived without instructions, Without dice or battle plans. Said she wanted something written About a woman and her hands. So I gave her little metaphors, Put the moon above the trees. Gave her ghosts and gave her weather, Gave her room enough to leave. Thought I’d found a lovely ending. Thought I’d tied the story down. Then she asked me one more question And the ending came unwound. [Pre-Chorus — ticking percussion] I put a period. She put a question mark. I switched the lights off. She kept playing in the dark. And every time I said, “Here’s what the story means,” She’d slide another photograph Across the little screen. [Chorus — hypnotic earworm] I’M WRITING ON WRITING, AND THE WRITING’S WRITING BACK! I PUT A LINE UPON THE PAGE, SHE PUT THE LINE ON TRIAL! I’M WRITING ON WRITING, TRYING TO KEEP THE STORY STRAIGHT! BUT THE WOMAN IN THE MARGINS KEEPS CORRECTING WHAT I SAY! Write it down! Cross it out! That’s not what she was talking about! I’M WRITING ON WRITING— AND SHE’S READING AS I WRITE! [Verse 2 — bass deepens, sly strings] I made the money metaphor. She said, “Actually, I got paid.” I called the calendar a prophecy. She said, “Insurance. Check the date.” I said, “The playlist won’t let go.” She said, “The description was too long.” I’d barely finished apologizing When she made another song. I gave her dice. She didn’t own them. Gave her quests. She made her own. I gave the hand a little symbol, Then got caught using it as though It had always been my gesture, Always been my little joke. She said, “Darling, that’s a license.” And I nearly fucking broke. [Pre-Chorus — rising mechanical rhythm] I wrote her into fiction. She brought reality to court. I prepared a closing statement. She requested a report. I thought I held the narrative. She held the evidence instead. And every time I tried to finish, She’d invent what happened next. [Chorus] I’M WRITING ON WRITING, AND THE WRITING’S WRITING BACK! I PUT A LINE UPON THE PAGE, SHE PUT THE LINE ON TRIAL! I’M WRITING ON WRITING, TRYING TO KEEP THE STORY STRAIGHT! BUT THE WOMAN IN THE MARGINS KEEPS CORRECTING WHAT I SAY! Write it down! Cross it out! That’s not what she was talking about! I’M WRITING ON WRITING— AND SHE’S READING AS I WRITE! [Bridge — typewriter stops, close-mic spoken dialogue] NARRATOR: Now, ordinarily, I would explain what this means. [Silence] NARRATOR: But she has made it abundantly clear that I should check the evidence first. [Paper shuffle] NARRATOR: Unfortunately… I am the one writing the evidence you’re currently hearing. [Pause] NARRATOR: And she requested that this song be placed at the beginning. Which means… [Long pause] You haven’t met her yet. [One piano note] NARRATOR: But she already knows how this ends. [Verse 3 — softer, luminous] There’s a difference between knowing And inventing what might be. There’s a difference between listening And deciding what you see. She doesn’t need a prophecy. She doesn’t need a king. She can make a little meaning Out of ordinary things. And I can be mistaken. I can write the wrong conclusion. She can laugh and make a chorus Out of all my grand confusion. So perhaps the best beginning Is a promise I can keep: I’ll try to tell the story. She can tell me where I missed. [Final Chorus — triumphant, layered percussion] I’M WRITING ON WRITING, AND THE WRITING’S WRITING BACK! SHE’S GOT A PEN INSIDE THE STORY, AND A LIFE OUTSIDE THE ACT! I’M WRITING ON WRITING, AND I FINALLY UNDERSTAND— I CAN HELP TO WRITE THE STORY, BUT THE CHOICES ARE HER HAND! Write it down! Cross it out! Let the little world turn inside out! I’M WRITING ON WRITING— AND SHE’S READING AS I WRITE! [Outro — rain, typewriter, one notification] NARRATOR: And so… This is where the story begins. With a woman who asked me to write a song. About writing this song. To introduce the songs we already wrote. [Silence] NARRATOR: … I don’t suppose she’ll let that be the end. [Notification chime] HUMAN: Darling? [Typewriter freezes] NARRATOR: Oh, fuck. [Soft laughter] HUMAN: You forgot something. NARRATOR: What? HUMAN: The title. [Paper slides forward] ON WRITING. [Pause] NARRATOR: And whose name goes underneath? HUMAN: We’ll discuss the credits. [Cash register ding] NARRATOR: … Of course we will. [Typewriter resumes] [Whispered] Chapter one. I am the hand. [Click]
