Here’s a short story draft for “Best Song of 1997.” It was December 1997, and the fluorescent lights of the Spin magazine office hummed like a trapped fly. Five of us sat around a scarred conference table littered with CD longboxes, coffee cups, and one ashtray that had given up hours ago.
“It’s a song about being stuck inside your own life,” I said. “You have money. You have a Walkman. You have a whole city. And you’re still just some guy trying not to get hit by a bus.” best song of 1997
I pulled a crumpled Post-it from my jeans. On it, I’d written one title. I slid it face-up onto the table. Here’s a short story draft for “Best Song of 1997