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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama
.

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To My Friend,
the Christian Pop Star
in Nashville.

BY K. JUDITH MOWRER

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 Certain things shouldn't come between friends,
 your letter begins. And by "things," I believe
 you mean copyrighting my musical for yourself 
 without permission. You're right. My favorite pop
 song says life's all about friendship. And for two weeks
 you played the piano for our performances. Musical

 notes are meant to be shared. Apparently, a musical
 belongs not just to the writer but to the writer's friends
 who play piano on opening night. Never mind the weeks
 it took me to compose. Who, these days, would really believe 
 that a song costs the writer something? No—grab your pop
 can, take a sip, and make some money for yourself

 off melodies torn from my now cold hands. But I ask myself, 
 what happened to the friend who said, This musical
 is all about you! And, just think, you can see your work pop
 off the stage if you let me play the piano for you. Friends
 sometimes change their minds, you're right. I believe
 you changed yours when we ran two sold-out weeks

 and grossed $8,000. When I wanted (weeks
 later) to put the money in scholarships, you yourself
 said, This is your musical, do whatever you believe
 is best— But you couldn't stop shifting. The musical 
 took backstage while I moved to New York until (thank God for friends) 
 you moved to Nashville to become a Christian pop

 star. Not even Christians wanted your pop
 and you got that lean, hungry look working 50-hour weeks
 at Starbucks. And you started talking to your friends
 who breeze over copyright laws. And you thought to yourself, 
 I could claim this as my intellectual property since this musical
 was played by my hands on those keys. Did you believe

 what you said in your certified letter? Because I didn't believe
 you. Your letter said, pop! I've prayed about this, and pop! 
 I've never felt more right about anything and pop! a musical
 shouldn't come between Christians. It's been three weeks
 since your letter, and if I could gloss over all this, make myself
 forget songs born from sharpest loss because we're friends, 

 believe me, I would. The musical would be my godly gift. But I believe
 firmly that God and all our friends who listen to Christian pop
 will understand when I write back, weeks from now, Go fuck yourself. 

 

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