The melody surged through him like an electric current, flowing from his mind to his fingertips. Notes swirled, light and lively, weaving through the words as they danced together.
"Help, help."
"The ship is sinking. They think I've lost it, but they can't understand how it feels. They circle around me like vultures, trying to break me down and strip away my colors—erase them completely."
"Fly away, sing out loud, and you'll be unstoppable."
"Become one, no boundaries—you can take the pain away."
"If I turn into a demon, save me (Save-Me, If-I-Become… My-Demons)."
Without thinking, Ronan started humming softly. His right hand fumbled across the paper, and Ollie caught on instantly, handing him the ballpoint pen.
Exactly what he needed!
Ronan twirled the pen between his thumb for a couple of spins, then began marking up the sketchbook—
Horizontal lines under some words, wavy lines under others, dots or triangles to highlight key phrases.
Next to the text, he jotted down quick snippets of melody in musical notation. It wasn't formal—this shorthand was something Ollie had taught him over the past few months—but Ronan had gotten the hang of it. It might not be perfect, but Ollie could follow it.
Ollie didn't interrupt, just leaned in close, his eyes tracking Ronan's pen as it moved. Listening to Ronan's low hums, he pieced together the melody in his head, the once-blurry tangle of thoughts starting to clear up a bit.
But Ronan's flow didn't last. He got through the first stage, then hit a wall.
He paused, then let out a quiet laugh. "Uh…" He was still so new to this. He'd always thought creating was a burst of energy, like a waterfall of inspiration pouring out all at once. But today, it stalled.
No wonder Ollie and Maxim often said music creation was a slow, steady process. Relying on a flash of genius wasn't enough. Most of the time, it meant sitting in a studio, in a quiet space, fully focused—pushing yourself to the limit and diving in completely, like it was a full-on project.
Inspiration had to be forced out.
Of course, talent was a must. Without it, no amount of effort could conjure something from nothing. And even then, the well of inspiration could run dry—when that happened, forcing it wouldn't help.
Still, art wasn't just about a sudden spark and a pat on the head. It demanded retreat, focus, and work.
Plus, writing lyrics and composing melodies were two different beasts. Some people jotted down melody fragments, while others captured emotions in words. Some excelled at building melodies from lyrics, even arranging them fully, while others worked backward, letting lyrics flow from a tune to reveal its hidden feelings.
No method was better or worse, but one thing was certain: inspiration and talent were essential, whether for lyrics or melodies. Sensing emotions, rhythms, and beats required different skills.
That's what made the creative process so fascinating.
Now, Ronan was starting to get a taste of what Ollie and Maxim had described. It wasn't fully real yet—he'd probably need to lock himself away and face the grind to truly feel it—but at least he wasn't clueless anymore.
"What's up?" Ollie noticed Ronan's expression and asked cautiously.
Ronan chuckled. "Power's out. I need to rethink this—the chorus needs a redo."
Ollie glanced down at his notes. "These won't work?"
Ronan paused, considering. "The vibe's off."
"What I'm picturing is being lost in the vast universe, where darkness and emptiness awaken the demon inside. You know, and I know, that demon's not leaving your head—it's devouring you. You've got to save yourself, or wait for rescue. Just saying 'get out of my head' feels too… peppy. I want the lyrics to carry more weight."
"Peppy?" Ollie blinked, baffled, not quite believing his ears. But he got Ronan's point. The mood of the lyrics and melody mattered—it's where the emotional magic happened.
What separated a generic pop hit from a timeless classic?
Both were catchy and widely loved—popular music that stuck with the masses often shared that trait. "Pop" wasn't a flaw to bash; it was a strength worth celebrating. The difference was that generic pop songs had lyrics with no depth—just syllables stuffed into a melody, leaving everything to the beat and rhythm. Listeners grooved to the tempo but felt nothing from the words.
That's why those songs came and went in waves. They'd blow up, people would love them, then move on to the next similar beat, tossing the old ones aside. Rarely did they evolve into classics that stood the test of time.
Timeless pop hits, though, had lyrics with a touch that lingered.
Take The Beatles—simple, accessible melodies and chords, nothing too fancy, but their lyrics always hit the heart.
Or Bob Dylan, the folk-rock poet who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2016, the first musician to claim it.
Their classics, even after thirty or fifty years, still stirred listeners. After Bohemian Rhapsody took off, Queen's forty-year-old album surged again—totally timeless.
That's how it worked.
Last night, Ronan's "Dancing Alone" on the Vegas Strip followed the same rule. The original used the contrast between lyrics and melody to spark emotion; his version leaned on the lyrics' raw feeling to strike a chord. The arrangements were worlds apart, but the emotional weight of the words tied them together, making both renditions resonate.
Now, Ronan and Ollie were wrestling with the same question:
How do you blend lyrics with emotional power into a melody perfectly?