I’m sitting in my very first and very vacant apartment in Los Angeles. There’s an empty bottle of wine on the counter, a full glass in my hands, and a deep slice across the center of my pointer finger, where I cut it from a kitchen knife. There’s a text on my phone from Emily Warren, a songwriter I grew up studying as a fan of her work - a writer who penned hits like Don’t Start Now by Dua Lipa, iconic smashes from The Chainsmokers, plus credits with Khalid, Sigrid, and Melanie Martinez. Just to name a few. I get so excited typing those names I forget my finger is completely f**ked, and I stab it into the keyboard. It catapults me from the ethereal world inside my head back into the (very real) life I’m living now - but each day, they’re looking more and more similar. It’s actually the most blissful thing.

Emily is my publisher now, which feels insane to even type. So is Prescription Songs, a publishing company I dreamed of getting signed to for years.

(Simply put: Publishers are a part of a songwriter’s team. They help me, as a writer, get into new writing sessions with people! Usually important people, if you’re lucky. And, simply put: writing sessions are just days you spend sitting in a room talking about your feelings, and then singing about those feelings, and hopefully getting that song out one way or another.)

Plus, “Pout” drops tomorrow. (Today, by the time you’re reading this!!!) So go stream it now! (Co-produced by the incredible Alton Sato and mixed & mastered by the brilliant Philip Handeland.) But even that feels like a minor point to this post.

If you know me, you know I've never been the biggest fan of smallness.

Trying to be the hardest worker in the room.

Words like “maximalism,” “opulence,” and “neon orange tennis shoes.”

Blowing up every minuscule emotion into something big enough to chew on and spit out into a lyric.

Constantly thinking of ways to move up, to catch the attention I know I need to be successful.

Moving recklessly as a creative (with a hint of strategy).

Loving big and stupid and vulnerably.

Talking too loud, and having fun doing it.

Leaning into what it means to be a 22 year old woman,

owning my body, my emotions, my femininity.

Managing the entire Deza brand on a spinning plate by myself: creating all my visuals, monitoring each social media account and post, emailing press and blogs, creating music videos, envisioning artwork shoots, writing the songs.

Balancing humility and confidence (clearly, often failing.)

But then some days, like today,

I do very small things. And I feel very small. (And I hate it, more than anything.)

I sit on my floor and I watch Netflix,

aimlessly rotating my bandaged finger and staring at the cut.

I cry about being lonely, and feeling unprepared for the moment at hand.

For being so pitifully human.

I’ve re-written this open letter 3 times now, searching for something meaningful (and not… vapid or stupid) to write each time. I keep thinking, why would anyone care to read an open letter from me? How annoying would it be to read a whole essay by some novice who’s only experienced a great deal of luck? But then I think, no, I’ve prepared my whole life for this. I’ve trained my whole life for this. I’ve studied music my whole life for this. I’ve hustled countless hours for this. I’ve moved from Waco to Nashville to Lillehammer, Norway for this. And, in doing so, I’ve been taught by so many incredible teachers, professors, and mentors, who have sculpted the foundation of my artistry into this thing it is today.

It’s all I do. It’s all I’ve ever done. And I’ve done it all to be here, to climb my way to the upper echelon, to be a part of pop music, to live in the history of how we write, sing, perform, and dance to it.

My preparation has, in a divine way, met luck. And I’m just really thankful.

And now, I’m sitting in my new Los Angeles apartment with a cut finger and an (almost) empty glass. Thank you to my incredible parents, my incredible friends and family, to every teacher I’ve ever had. And thank you, God for this quiet moment before this beautiful storm.

I can’t wait to share this new chapter of my journey with you.

thanks for being here,

all my love and light -

Deza

(stream pout!!!! I love you!!!!!!)

"When luck meets preparation", an open letter by Deza