Chapter Fourteen
Jack
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T HE BLANK PAGE MOCKS me.
I’ve been staring at the same sheet of notebook paper for hours. The coffee on my desk went cold twenty minutes ago. Outside the studio window, Memphis pulses with late afternoon energy—cars honking, people laughing, life moving on while I’m stuck in this creative purgatory.
I crumple the paper and toss it toward the overflowing trash can. Miss. Again.
My guitar sits untouched in the corner. At this point, the strings are gathering dust. Every time I pick it up, my fingers fumble. Every chord progression sounds stale. Every lyric feels like something I’ve already said.
Normally, I have twenty songs bouncing around in my head. I would wake up in the middle of the night with a melody begging to be played. I don’t know what is happening up there, my it’s like the lights are off in my head. And I can’t find the switch.
There is nothing. No inspirational lyrics or catchy hooks. No melodies. Nothing.
I reach for my phone. It’s a new one. And I’m not sure I like it. I pull up the text thread with Jinnie. It’s been a week since she’s been gone and I miss her more now than I did the whole time we were apart. She hasn’t replied to my last message. I know she’s working. I scroll through the messages, looking for some kind of spark of inspiration.
Nothing. It’s like my brain just shut off. This is it. I wrote hundreds of songs without even needing to think about it. Now, I have nothing left to write about. I’m nineteen. I don’t have enough life experience to write anything else.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Jack?” Liz’s voice carries through the wood before she even opens it.
She looks around the writing room. A writing room. That was something she insisted I use. There are several writing rooms in the label’s expansive office space. It’s supposed to be somewhere quiet for people to bust out a few songs. I met some of the other writers yesterday. Some were young, others were far older. All of them were sucking on coffee and looked a little pale.
“Tell me you have something,” she says.
“No.”
“We’re on a deadline,” she reminds me.
I rub my eyes. “Half the album’s done.”
“And?”
“And it’s shit.”
Liz sighs, perching on the edge of the couch. Her skirt rides up, revealing tanned thighs. I look away. “You’re overthinking this,” she purrs, leaning closer. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just good enough. We’ve got good producers that can turn anything into a hit.”
She reaches out and touches my arm.
She’s always touching me. Every time she looks at me I swear she’s picturing me naked. I’m getting used to being ogled, but it’s different when it’s like this. Liz is supposed to be the one guiding me through this shit show. She’s making it worse.
“My first album is good,” I say. “I’m proud of it. This is shit. It’s rushed. It’s not right.”
“It’s fine,” she says with a shrug. “We’ve got people that will make it right.”
Liz leans back against the desk, her arms crossed, and stares at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. A puzzle that’s frustrating her.
“Look, Jack,” she says, her voice clipped, “this isn’t working. You’re stuck. I get it—writer’s block, creative burnout, whatever you want to call it. But we don’t have time for this. The label wants a second album. Now.”
“I can’t just pull songs out of thin air, Liz. It doesn’t work like that.”
She sighs, pushing off the desk and pacing the small room. “It does for some people. You’re not the first artist to hit a wall. And you won’t be the last.” She stops in front of me, hands on her hips. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You either give me something—anything—by the end of this week, or I bring in the catalog.”
“The catalog?” I echo, my stomach twisting.
“Yes, the catalog,” she says, her tone impatient. “We’ve got hundreds of pre-written songs from top-tier writers sitting in a vault. Songs that have already been tested for radio playability. Songs that are guaranteed hits.”
I shake my head immediately. “No way. I’m not putting my name on someone else’s work.”
“Oh, come on,” she snaps, throwing her hands up.
“Anyone who’s listened to my music is going to know if I wrote a song,” I say with exasperation.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. No one cares. It’s your job to sell a song. Our team will come up with a story for you to tell about the songs when it’s time to market the album.”
“No! I’m not going to lie.”
“You might want to remember I made you,” she says. “You’re not exactly Garth Brooks or whatever artist you think you are. You’ve got one good album. It’s very easy for people to forget you, which is why you need to keep riding the wave of success. Once it crests, it’s all downhill. You may never recover. You don’t get to act like you’re a king. Not yet. You haven’t made us that kind of money.”
“I didn’t ask to be turned into some... some product. I just wanted to make music.”
Liz’s eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You didn’t ask for it?” she repeats. “ You signed the contract, Jack. You took the money. You walked into this world with your eyes wide open. Don’t act like you’re some poor, misunderstood artist who got duped. You knew what this was.”
“I didn’t know it would be like this,” I fire back.
“I gave you this life. I made you who you are now. Without me, you’d still be playing for pocket change in some dusty bar in the middle of nowhere.”
I know she’s right. “I want to write my own music.”
“Then do it.”
“I’m trying,” I mutter.
“What do you need, Jack?” Liz says with exasperation. “Name it. Do you need company ?”
“Company?”
“A woman, Jack. I’ve found that often helps an artist work out some frustration.”
I’m horrified. “No. Hell no. I need Jinnie.”
Liz laughs. “Sweetheart, unless she’s suddenly developed a knack for songwriting—”
“She gets me,” I interrupt. “She knows when it’s right. When it’s mine. She’s the one who helped me with several songs on the first album.”
Liz’s expression hardens. “Well, she’s not here. And the clock’s ticking.”
“I can get her here,” I say. “I just need a week or two.”
“No. I’ll send in the session guys. Maybe they can help.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why can’t I figure this out? This feels so much worse than writer’s block. I’ve struggled with finishing a song before. But there was never a timeline. I just waited until it came to me. Or Jinnie helped.
That has to be the problem. I’m trying to force it. If I could go for a walk or sit on Jinnie’s porch, it would give my brain a chance to rest. I’m pushing it too hard.
I flop onto the couch pushed against the wall and reach for my old notebook. It’s filled with songs that didn’t make it onto the first album, but they don’t feel right for the next one. They are song written by a na?ve kid. I’ve only been in this world for a short time, but I already feel changed. My eyes are open. The songs no longer feel right. They are from an old life.
I consider calling my brothers but stop myself. I know they’re working. They’ll be busting ass to get everything ready for winter. Now, they’re feeling my absence. Winterizing the farm is no joke. I think they might be a little pissed at me. Obviously, they have seen my overnight success. I don’t know if they’re jealous, bitter, or if they even care. It’s not like we talk about our feelings.
I flip through the pages and look for a song I can tweak. There had to be something.
I don’t know how long I’d sat in that room when the door opened. I assume it’s Liz coming back for another one of her pep talks.
Three guys who look like they stepped out of a Nashville catalog—perfect hair, pristine boots, smiles that don’t reach their eyes, all file in. The room isn’t exactly big and now it feels like a box.
“Hey, man, I’m Chase,” he says. “Liz asked up to come in and help.”
“Colin,” another one said. “Heard you’re stuck. We’ll get you unstuck.”
“I’m Alex,” the last one said as he sits down at the desk. “I’m the music man. Those two are the word wizards.”
“So, what’re we working with?” Chase asks.
I grab the yellow pad I’ve been doodling on. There are a few songs, but they are in their infancy. “I don’t have much,” I murmur.
Chase flips through the pages. “This is... folksy.”
He hands the notepad to Colin. I can see the expression on their faces. They don’t like it. Folksy isn’t a compliment.
“It’s authentic,” I say. “It’s my sound. I don’t have to stick to any one style. I can’t do a lot of different styles.”
Chase gives me a pitying look. “Authentic doesn’t sell, brother. Let’s punch it up. Alex, pull up his other tracks and we’ll see if we can match his voice.”
Alex nods and pulls out his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. The room fills with the sound of my first single—my voice, my songs, filtered through the polished production that Liz had insisted on. It’s jarring to hear it now, like looking at a photo of yourself that’s been airbrushed into someone else. I can still hear my sound underneath the post-production. I like it. Not as much as I like just me and the guitar, but it’s decent.
Chase and Colin start tossing out ideas. Listening to them talk, I can tell they work together a lot. “Let’s add some synth,” Chase says.
“Maybe a feature with a rapper?” Colin suggests.
I bristle. “That’s not me.”
“You sure about that?” Chase asks, leaning back in his chair. “Because right now, you’re not anything. You’re stuck. And unless you want Liz to start pulling songs from the catalog, you need to get unstuck.”
“I don’t need a rapper or synth or whatever else you’re suggesting. I need space. I need time.”
“Time’s up, man,” Colin says bluntly. “You’re on a deadline. And if you can’t deliver, they’ll find someone who can.”
I know they’re right—Liz isn’t going to wait forever—but the thought of compromising my music makes me sick.
“Look,” Alex says, his voice calmer than the others. “We’re here to help, not take over. Let’s find something you’re comfortable with and go from there.”
What follows is three hours of musical torture. They take my simple ballad about hometown heartache and layer it with synth beats. They suggest changing the key of my most personal song to make it more “radio-friendly.” They replace my raw, imperfect bridge with a polished, soulless riff.
By the time we finish, we’ve completed four more tracks.
They sound like every other song on the radio.
They sound nothing like me.