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The uppermost page remains blank and time marches on, bringing me closer and closer to a deadline that will make or break what’s left of my music career. It’s not looking good.

A few months ago, I couldn’t stop random riffs and bits of melody from living rent free in my mind. Now I’m lucky to hear the buzzing of a neon vacancy sign in the empty vastness that remains.

Writer’s block is the absolute worst.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Granddad’s old kitchen clock reminds me I’m running out of time. The kitchen chair squeaks when I lean back and toss my hands up in frustration. This shouldn’t be so hard. When I signed the solo artist deal with Exit 12S Records in September, I was elated. My luck was finally turning around. But now I wonder if I’ve signed on for a fresh new round of hell. How many times will I be thisclose to my dream, only to have it ripped away before I can grasp it?

The ticking clock is going to drive me bonkers. Guitar in hand, I head to the back porch. Fresh air might do me some good. Settling into my usual chair, I survey the yard. Granny’s coneflowers are in bloom and are buzzing with bees and the occasional butterfly. The butterfly weed in the corner has really taken off since I moved in.

I’d spent the first few days here moping around and feeling sorry for myself. But after an “it’s time to get your act together” pep talk/ultimatum from Granddad, I got off my ass and started playing as a solo act at open mics all over Nashville. If there was an opportunity to perform, I was there. Coffee shops, honky-tonks, in-the-round sessions, karaoke. I even spent a day busking in Printers Alley.

I’d been honing my chops, doing my best to show the music world I’m not done yet. Mostly I was playing stripped-down versions of country-rock classics by Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Eagles, intermixed with old songs I’d written for Six String Justice. I even tested out a few different versions of that song I’d pitched in the van that fateful night of my dismissal.

And then, one hazy, hot, and humid afternoon, Barry Winslow showed up.

Barry’s a well-known talent scout who’s been on the Nashville music scene for ages. Before a heart attack forced him into semiretirement, he was affectionately known as the “One in a Billion Bloodhound” for being able to sniff out a star on the cusp of an epic rise.

Like a man that time forgot, Barry wears his black hair swept up into a pompadour and pairs it with thick sideburns. On some guys, it would look sketchy, but on Barry, it works. And somehow, he still manages to get lost in the crowd until he wants his presence to be known.

A few years back, he’d popped into a Battle of the Bands event during a Six String Justice set. He’d just gotten out of the hospital and wasn’t actively looking to sign anyone new. I’d barely hopped offstage when he pulled me aside and said, “You got skills, kid, but you’re still finding your groove. I’ll see you around.” At the time, I was still too green to know who he was or what it might mean that Barry Winslow shook my hand.

In August, we ran into each other again at the Dusty Boot Bar and Grill, a small establishment patronized mostly by Nashville locals. Known for its hot chicken and cold drinks, it’s popular with starving artists for offering up a free meal to any musician who plays a full fifteen-minute set. The waitlist is long, but I was hungry for an opportunity to play (and for a fried chicken sandwich), so I kept submitting my name for a chance in the lineup. Finally, I got the call.

“Your set’s at 3:45. Three-forty-five. You have a fifteen-minute limit. Don’t be late.”

I arrived early and played my heart out. I had no idea Barry was there until he came up to me after my set. By that time, my mouth was full of chicken and my hand was coated in hot sauce.

“Hey, kid, remember me?” He pulled out the seat across from me and sank into it like he was an old friend meeting me for a late lunch.

I nodded like a bobblehead as I tried to swallow the hunk of chicken in my mouth. No one forgets Barry Freakin’ Winslow. But the fact that he remembered me? My mind was blown.

“Have you written any new stuff lately?” Barry clasped his hands in front of him on the table like we were sitting in his office and not at a wobbly table at the Dusty Boot.

“Some,” I managed to reply after taking a giant swig of sweet tea.

Barry studied me for a moment. “You been playing any of it?”

Um, no. Most of the crap I’d come up with since my return to Nashville would have gotten me booed offstage. Sure, country music is full of the “lost my dog, lost my car, lost my wife” sad songs, but my version—where I’d lost my band and been backstabbed by guys I thought were my bros—was just too pathetic. It was safer to stick with old standards and the early Six String Justice songs I knew by heart.

“Not really,” I admitted. I wiped hot sauce from my fingers onto a paper napkin, wishing I could wipe away some of my discomfort, too.

Barry pressed his palms down on the table and stood. “I gotta think about it.”

Think about what? I hadn’t asked him for anything. He’d approached me, after all.

Bottles clanked and forks scraped over plates, and it felt like I was supposed to say something back to him. “Okay?”

“Look, kid,” he said, leaning closer as he pushed his chair in. “Covering old songs is great. But it’s not going to get you where you want to go. My advice: Work on some new stuff. Find your musical voice.”

So I tried. I worked on pathetic breakup songs. I tried my hand at a country-rock anthem. The attempts went all cattywampus. At the end of the day, I was more comfortable performing covers than originals. It didn’t help that Justin’s version of my song was gaining traction.

But it was his version, and that gave me pause. Was he right about my songwriting? Was my stuff not hit material?

Barry kept popping up where I was playing. Open mics led to short-set opportunities to open for better-known local acts. Soon I was playing gigs that required original compositions. All my stuff sucked, but at least I was trying.

After a show at the Drowsy Cow one night, Barry came up to me and said, “Okay, kid. I’ve made up my mind. Today’s your lucky day.”