The lit end of her manager's cigar darted about in the haze of smoke, its red tip flitting back and forth like a dragon's eye in sleep. Fat Stacks shut off the recording and looked down his nose at Sweetie.
"Kid," he began in his gravelly voice, "lemme tell you something about the music business."
Sweetie Belle's shoulders sagged. "You didn't like the demo." she said, thinking of all the things that she could have done differently to get Stacks more favorably disposed to the original material she'd been working on. Maybe she should have brought her own tape player. Maybe she should have put Blown Glass Bird first instead of Right Upon the Microscope Stage. Maybe she should have picked a different time to bring up the subject of her own songs other than a Friday afternoon just as Stacks was leaving his office.
"It's not about what I like." He gestured patiently with his hooves. "It's about what's gonna sell. Every filly out there is thinkin' what's in these songs -- I'm confused, the world is big and scary, how do I find my place in it -- that sorta thing. Right?"
"Right..."
"But that's not what they wanna listen to." He slung a thick foreleg around her shoulder and pointed into the distance out the office window. "They don't wanna hear that coming back at them, they wanna hear 'I can be a confident young mare who's not afraid to party and have fun!' Like Filly Explosion!'s been doing."
"I just thought--" Sweetie began, but Stacks cut her off with a wave of his cigar. He sauntered back behind his desk as he spoke, his wide barrel swaying with the motion.
"Kid, I been in this business since before you were even thinkin' about what your cutie mark would be. I know what makes a success. And you're a success, ain't'cha?"
Sweetie hadn't even noticed he had taken her demo tape out of the player, but now he was giving it back to her. It meant this discussion was done.