Page 42 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Fourteen

Jack

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THE 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.