Page 16

Everything after that was a blur. Exit 12S Records offered me a recording deal for a solo EP. All they needed were six original songs by December 31, and as soon as I signed, I got a small advance to make it happen. I was back to being a legitimate paid musician again.

Much to my father’s disappointment, I’m sure, given that I’m still not an accountant. But I did the math and the math looked good. Real good.

Six songs in four months = one and a half songs per month = easy peasy.

I inked the deal in a heartbeat, ready to take Nashville by storm.

Except…

All those songs I’ve been dreaming about, all the memorable, catchy lyrics I’ve been conjuring up, all the stuff that’s wanted to pour out of me for months now seemed to vanish before the ink on the contract was even dry.

Now here I am, staring at the same blank page watching the minutes tick by, and I am totally, absolutely, monumentally screwed. I have until December 31 to deliver an album demo and I have zilch.

Nada.

Nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. I have a lot of crap and that one semi-decent song from the van that sounds nothing like the song Justin created from it.

My hands ball into fists. If that song wasn’t good enough for Six String Justice, what makes me think it’ll be good enough for Exit 12S Records?

As if he can sense trouble brewing across town, my cell phone lights up with a call from Barry. “Hey, kid,” he says in his reedy, raspy voice. I’m pretty sure he knows my name, but I’m not sure he’s ever actually used it. “How’s the songwriting going?”

I gulp down an uncomfortable swallow. “Good. Great.” The lie is as hollow as the body of the acoustic guitar in my lap.

“That so?” Barry says in a way that lets me know he’s not buying what I’m selling. “I don’t want to add any more pressure, kid, but we need you to deliver.”

He makes it sound so simple, like the label’s expecting me to drop off an extra-large pepperoni pizza with a side of garlic bread and not six solid songs fit for radio play.

“I, uh…” I squirm and run my fingernail around the edge of the pick guard. Should I try to convince him that I can still deliver, or should I go ahead and admit defeat? When I signed the agreement, I was full of ideas and something to prove. Now I’m just a has-been musician mooching off my grandfather, a hop, skip, and a jump away from being a complete washout.

“Lemme guess. You have a case of writer’s block.” He sounds unconcerned and there’s not even the slightest hint of judgment that I have nothing to show for the passage of two months’ time.

“You could say that.” Admitting it relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been steadily building inside, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like the biggest loser in Tennessee.

“It happens to every songwriter,” Barry says. “Even Willie Nelson said so. Did you ever read that book of his?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “He said—and I’m paraphrasing here—‘the secret to getting over writer’s block is to wait.’ Now, Willy’s an icon, so he knows what’s what for sure, but unfortunately for you, kid, you aren’t Willie. You don’t have time to wait.”

Tell me something I don’t already know, Barry.

My body tenses, bracing for impact. This is it. This is where Barry’s going to tell me that the label’s changed its mind. That they made a mistake. That they’re headed in a different direction. That it’s time to part ways.

That I owe them money.

I’m sitting in a wicker rocking chair on the back porch at Granddad’s place, but I might as well be standing in a fast-food parking lot watching the tour van drive away. I’m about to get axed all over again.

“You still there, kid?”

I blink and mumble, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Barry says. “So, here’s the deal. Exit 12S’s publishing arm recently signed a local songwriter to do some for-hire work. I think the two of you should work together to write your demos. She helps you. You help her. Exit 12S gets the demo on time. It’s a win-win-win for everyone involved.”

Is it, though?

It was hard enough working with a bunch of guys I grew up with, and I’d known them forever. Does Barry really expect me to form some kind of insta-trust with a random songwriter I’ve never met?

Barry must sense my hesitation, because he goes into sales mode. “She’s eager to be a working songwriter, and she’s been building some real buzz. A few awards and accolades.” He pauses as if to consider what he’s about to say next. “Some attention on social media earlier this year. But you two shouldn’t have any trouble working together.”

“Oh.”