Shannon Hugman

“Here comes the chorus,” I thought to myself, a few lines ahead of the words currently coming out of my mouth, the melody and rhythm rising and carrying not only me but a crowd of thousands singing along. We’d worked so hard to get here, I expected to feel more relaxed, instead my stomach could not relax, like my body was warning me about something my mind didn’t understand yet. I felt one of those moments. My grandma called them snapshots, like a Polaroid photo you automatically hold in your hand and feel like you’ll cherish forever. Playing here in Europe at this festival was definitely a moment, one I wanted to savor. In the distance the sun set into the Mediterranean sea. Light scattered like diamonds across the water. It should’ve calmed me. It didn’t. Pushing those subtle gut feeling sensations aside, I gave a tricky little smile to the crowd, only using half my mouth. It was “the smile,” a recent indie music magazine called “the undeniably sexy lure of Rosie Reid.” That allure brought all kinds of problems and unwanted attention, but it also got me in the spotlight. Lately, though, being seen had started to feel like standing under a heat lamp, too bright, too exposed, like something was watching me from the edges of the crowd. But my vibe was what people wanted to see, and when you were making music with the secret agenda of changing the world, being seen was all that mattered. How could my music make a difference if no one else heard it? I felt the energy of the band behind me, my drummer building the atmosphere, the dark but intriguing lead guitarist barely making eye contact with me under the long hair hanging over his face, and my best friend over on bass, who I didn’t have to look at to know was right there with me. I loved these guys, and after traveling on the road, sleeping in cheap hotels, spending hours with one another in a car, and eating way too many hotel breakfasts, even loading up on croissants and carrying them in my bag for the four of us when there wasn’t time to stop for lunch, well, stuff like that just bonded people. The crowd was hanging onto my every word, and I was more than happy to give them a chorus to sing along with. Girls up front screamed the words. I saw a lot of guys in the crowd bobbing their heads in a way that they probably dubbed “cool.” I looked around at my bandmates, all of us sharing this moment, this epic moment together, but I didn’t feel like I thought I would. Actually, I kinda felt nothing. This was a Polaroid I’d probably lose or forget about, even if I thought it’d be something I’d cherish forever. All these thoughts swirled through my head while I continued to play the guitar and sing our hit. It’s amazing what you can do mindlessly after a while. I had sung this song too many times to count. Over the past year we had been on tour almost permanently. Even though this was my dream, this was the ultimate goal: write music, perform it, and change the world, I was starting to crave something more, something different. I wondered how many people were at my set just to hear this one song. It made a chart list and people were using it as an excuse to call me a one-hit wonder. Fuck ’em, I thought to myself, and belted out the words: “You’re it. It’s you. It’s all you’ll ever be and all you needed to. You’re the secret weapon, you’re the number one, my number one, you’re the Sun.” We brought the song to a close, ending all together in a dramatic way that really left you feeling the silence. “You’re the Sun” was a smasher of a hit; the music roared through your cells, and I could feel the crowd taking an exhale. It was like all thousands of us were having a mini debrief, a calm after a storm. At my feet were guitar pedals and amp chords duct tapped to the floor. The light show culminated in a tie dye technology sun graphic before going dark. A dramatic end to our biggest song. I cleared my throat and said, “I want to take this moment and thank you all for being here. I hope you’re having fun and enjoying yourselves. It’s a big deal that you’re here supporting art. It’s this kinda thing that will change the world,” I said in my husky, sexy voice, with that same sly smile on my red lips. I adjusted my black leather, well, fake leather. I wasn't here for animal products, not as a lifelong vegetarian. It was a vintage short little number I had picked up at a used clothing market in one of our many European tour stops. I exclusively wore used clothes and refused to buy anything new. It was a statement I talked a lot about during interviews: “Why would I create more waste on this Earth when there are so many epic items just waiting to be found?” Thrifting wasn’t just a political statement, one that clearly communicated how the material-driven generations before me were destroying the planet for my future, but it was also just fun. Like a treasure hunt. I wore an oversized flannel shirt on top, hiding my body beneath forest-green plaid long sleeves, baggy around my chest and waist. The shirt was so long it also covered my skirt like I was wearing some kind of muumuu nightgown thing. It made me feel safe, to be honest. But that little bit of leg between the mini skirt and the knee highs seemed to make it all acceptable, because the thick thighs showing satisfied the look. I was a woman rock star after all. People might like to listen to my music, but if they were here to see me on stage, they wanted to see some of me or at least that’s how my manager described it. This short skirt showed off my long legs, from the thigh to my knee, the lower half of my legs were covered in high heeled boots. These boots were a find, and even though my manager begged to have a wardrobe crew dress me in some of the latest trends, all supplied by a corporate sponsor, I refused and kept with my knee-high black metallic glitter boots. The heels gave me the foxy look I was becoming known for, but I didn’t like to flaunt my curvy body too much. I knew it was a part of the act, but I hated to think about myself as just a Barbie dressing up on stage for people to ogle at. I knew every show involved a lot of ogling, not just from the crowd, I often had to fight off other musicians, and even my own bandmates at times. I was magnetic and pulled everyone in. It was a blessing, but mostly felt like a curse. “So yeah, to you guys this might just be a fun weekend out, but to me you are the future, you are changing the world just by opening up your hearts and choosing art,” I said, pulling myself back into the moment. It was the end of the set and time for me to say something that stuck with people. I was always putting this pressure on myself, to be memorable, to be moving, to make all of this worth it. To be part of something bigger. “We’re going to play a new song for you all. This one is about the future.” It wasn’t actually a new song, it was a really old one. One of the first ones I had written. But since my writer’s block had been coming on so thick, and Marcy said I needed to start playing something, anything else, I decided to pull it back up from my old GarageBand files. The band learned it quickly, and we were playing it this tour. Ugh, the writer’s block, looking out at the crowd I felt a feverish, familiar fear, too familiar, rose in my body. I was used to it after a year of not being able to write anything, well at least anything good. “Ok, Rosie,” I told myself, “it’s not the time to focus on what’s blocked, just let the music flow.” I went into the soft, slow, and dreamy song where I talked about the Earth, and if we kept taking from her, how else could she give? Lyrics equating the planet to an abused woman, and each of us the ones who can’t help but take advantage of her. It was a heavy track, but ultimately meant to be humbling, to remind us all that we were guests here. A conservative blog site criticized me for the lyrics, since “Rosie Reid travels all around the world, what’s her carbon footprint going to look like?” And you know what, they weren’t wrong. But with all my songs, I didn’t so much make them up as hear them inside of myself and feel a duty to be the messenger and share them with others. Even though I played the role of a pessimist, a “we’re-all-doomed,” angry young person with an eclectic dark vintage aesthetic, deep down I was very spiritual and believed there was something more guiding me, and each of us. But my light and love side wouldn’t sell records. People were here to see this tough chick who wanted to stick it to the mainstream and speak to all the young people out there afraid, just like she was, of the world they inherited. As the song ended, I felt the crowd drifting away, which was pretty normal for a new song. People liked to hear songs they knew, they wanted to be part of a crowd and sing along and dance to a beat they recognized. But I also knew by singing this song I was planting a seed, and later, when they were by themselves listening with headphones, they would feel this music on a deep level, and maybe their fears would feel a little understood. “Thank you all so much for being here, one last time, seriously, thank you,” I said, bowing down and bringing my hands into a prayer position in my heart. I stood up, put my guitar in its holder, and prepared to leave the stage when I caught the bassist’s eyes, and shit, I forgot to introduce them and thank the band. This was not good, and if I didn’t do it now, I would hear about it for a long time. These guys loved me, maybe a little too much, but they also wanted recognition and weren’t just here to be part of the Rosie show. I tried to make it look like I meant to do it this way, but it was pretty obvious I almost forgot. I did what I tried to make look like a funny little shuffle back over to the mic, gave a little twirl. “And where would I be without Zolt on guitar, James on bass, and Joe on drums? Thanks, my boys,” I said, flashing one last sexy look at the crowd. I think there was something everyone loved about hearing “they’re my boys,” even though I definitely did not think about it that way. Give the crowd something to wonder about, my agent had told me a long time ago. Tease them into your life and relationships, make them want more. I gave each of the boys a little salute and laughed, for a second, everything finally felt normal. Then I saw them. Front left of the crowd. Two men in suits. Identical X-shaped pins on their collars. Dark sunglasses even though the sun had set. The sight of them sent fear rocking through my body and punching me in the gut. My entire body remembered before my mind did. I felt vomit rise into my throat, but somehow managed not to be sick in front of thousands of people. The memory I’ve tried for years to bury flashed like our onstage strobe lights. Men wearing that same pin. That same night. The worst night of my life. I was panicking, but somehow I forced myself to breathe and looked out into the distance. I made eye contact with one of the men. He nodded his head, as though silently confirming my worst fears. I stumbled back from the mic, heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I didn’t walk offstage, I bolted. Tripped over my platform boots, nearly ate it in front of everyone, but I didn’t care. It felt like an emergency, and I knew exactly why. Last time they showed up, my life burned down.

1.Story Statement: A rising rockstar fights shadowy forces led by her own father unknown to her, while uncovering her mother’s mysterious death and using music as a weapon for change. 2. The Antagonist: The antagonistic force is the music industry, the system, “the man” and the powers that control what the mainstream consumes. The ones who have silenced voices through the years. They appear as black-suited men, who mysteriously make themselves known. Their presence is a warning. They want to keep a controlled narrative, one that keeps the system running and benefits those on top. They are unforgiving. When Rosie ignores their threats, they act. The first time she saw them, they were talking to her dad when she was ten years old. The next day he disappeared. She never saw him again. Later, when Rosie confronts the person in charge of the black suits, she discovers it’s her dad. Throughout most of the story, she doesn’t know this. He explains that he made a deal with the industry, joined forces with them, so Rosie would be safe. He didn’t realize the message Rosie would be singing. Her music, challenging corrupt systems, has shaken the powers on top. It’s the same reason they killed her mother, though Rosie doesn’t know it. Her dad, a music industry executive, sent the suited men to scare her, thinking that’s what would keep her alive and prevent her from meeting the same fate as her mother. 3. Title: Rock On Rosie Reid 4. Genre: Contemporary Young Adult 4. Comp Titles: Combines the music-world intimacy of Daisy Jones & The Six with the identity struggles and youthful voice of On the Come Up. My story doubles down with a missing-father mystery and a shadowy ‘Suits’ cabal trying to silence a voice meant to change the world; combining the urgency of a thriller with the soul of a rock-star coming-of-age. Alternative comp titles: All My Rage by Sabaa Tahir Themes of Loss, family dynamics, and resilience. The story portrays characters dealing with grief and searching for healing, echoing Rosie's emotional journey. Clap When You Land" by Elizabeth Acevedo Themes of loss, family secrets, and emotional healing Explores the impact of a father's death on two sisters, similar to Rosie’s search for answers about her father. 5. Logline: Orphaned rockstar Rosie Reid tours the globe, pouring herself into music that could change the world—until black-suited enforcers, led by her estranged father, force Rosie to confront deadly secrets and survive the system that killed her mother. Alternatively Orphaned and alone, rockstar Rosie Reid pours herself into writing music, touring the globe and hoping it can change the world while filling the void left by her missing parents. But black-suited men start threatening her life and she discovers the mastermind is her estranged father. Rosie must confront deadly secrets and survive the system that killed her mother. 6. Other Matters of Conflict: Inner Conflict Rosie Reid struggles with complex grief because she doesn’t know how her mom died or why her dad disappeared. Nothing was ever spoken about, so she develops PTSD and a fear of attachment, afraid to love or let others get close. We see this in how she keeps a distance from her only surviving relative, her grandmother. She has a disorganized attachment style, having had to survive mostly on her own. When she interacts romantically, she’s afraid; yet she becomes intensely attached to Luna, even though it’s premature. Rosie swings between wanting to hold someone close and needing the safety she feels in relying only on herself. Living as her stage persona, Rosie Reid, instead of her true self, Elizabeth, who was too nerdy and unconfident to perform, she often feels like a fraud. Her personality is split between the person she is on stage and who she really is. She is stubborn and refuses to stop her music, even when it threatens her life. When betrayed by Luna to the press, Rosie spirals into depression, feeling utterly alone, with all the pain of her past flooding back. She also carries shame and guilt for risking lives at the Toronto show, and a deep fear of the future, worried about environmental crises, corruption, and injustice. Inner Conflict Scenario: Before a major show, Rosie sees the black-suited men outside the venue. Panic and flashbacks to her father’s disappearance overtake her. She struggles with whether to run, perform, or confide in someone, oscillating between fear, anger, and guilt, revealing her PTSD, and the heavy burden of responsibility she carries for those around her. Secondary Conflict Rosie falls in love with a photographer named Luna and allows herself to be vulnerable, forming a close attachment despite her usual guardedness. This is the first time Rosie realizes she has feelings for a woman. Luna travels to NYC to be with her, but begins acting strangely. Eventually, Rosie discovers that Luna has sold private photos to the press, betraying her trust. Rosie also struggles with her grandmother. She has kept her at a distance, afraid that love brings pain, which has caused her to almost forget about her grandmother, a loss that hurts her more than anyone else. Social Conflict Scenario: Rosie invites Luna to a private studio session to celebrate a milestone in her tour, only to later see her personal photos in a newspaper. She feels an overwhelming sense of betrayal and heartbreak. Around the same time, she avoids a call from her grandmother, feeling guilt and shame, but unable to overcome her fear of closeness. 7. Setting: World Tour/Music Festivals & Venues: The setting moves between touring at music festivals and concert venues, sleeping on the bus, and staying in hotels around Europe and North America. The tour bus is full of the band—three men and Rosie—so it’s stuffy, smelly, and not somewhere she likes to spend time. When she gets a private hotel room to herself, she feels like a queen and unpacks all her things, even if it’s just for one night; having a place that feels like home satisfies Rosie. The story opens in Spain at the Primavera Sound music festival, which is on the Mediterranean Sea. Then the band travels to Scotland, where they play at an old church turned concert venue. During the day, before the show, Rosie explores the West End of Glasgow and makes her way to the university, which has Hogwarts-esque cloisters that inspire her imagination and soothe her inner child. Next, they fly to Toronto, where they play at an old opera house. The Music Hall glows under the streetlights, its brick façade worn but proud, marquee lights blinking like a heartbeat. Inside, the air hums with anticipation. Polished wood floors, velvet curtains, and the faint scent of draft beer. Posters of past performers line the walls, their edges curled, their eyes watching. The stage waits, scarred with scratches and dust, ready to come alive. Rosie’s Loft Apartment in NYC: Sunlight pours through tall, industrial windows, catching on the exposed brick walls and worn hardwood floors. The loft is filled with thrifted and vintage pieces that carry their own stories, a threadbare sofa, a scratched coffee table, a leaning bookshelf overflowing with records and notebooks. Plants climb toward the light in recycled pots, though they’re in need of care, because the apartment has a sense of being empty most of the time. Guitars rest against walls like old friends, chipped and dusty. It’s messy but intentional, creative but absent. It’s a space that waits for Rosie to come home between tours. Outside, the East Village hums with energy: graffiti-ed walls, corner cafés, and the distant pulse of music from a bar down the street.