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Well, for starters, Carole probably wakes up smiling every morning, just like she advises in the lyrics to her song. I am not a morning person, so that’s not happening. Carole’s prepared to show the world every drop of love in her heart. Right now, all the love in my heart is being beaten to death as it pounds against my rib cage. I’d rather not show that to the world.

I blow out a sigh that’s equal parts frustration and nerves. Carole King—one of my biggest musical inspirations—managed to conquer her stage fright to become one of the most influential female singer-songwriters ever. If she could do it, maybe I can, too?

Bile rises in my throat, and I force it back down.

Maybe not.

Chet Bryant, banjo player, ends his set with a flourishing finish to “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” and the emcee—local news reporter Kirk Hoenig—steps out onto the stage. Clint gives me a stiff nod. “Time to get out there,” he whispers as he holds out my acoustic-electric guitar.

I stare at it for a minute, hoping I’ll get lucky and a sinkhole will open beneath me. The ground under my feet wobbles…No, actually, that’s just my trembling knees.

Reluctantly, I hand him my journal, which I’ve been clutching to my chest like a shield. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but right now, my haphazardly scrawled lyrics aren’t offering much protection in my current time of need. I take my Fender from Clint with shaky hands and pull the strap over my head, brushing my shoulder-length, wavy hair aside so it doesn’t get caught.

“And now, it’s time for Tennessee’s Songwriter of the Year to take the stage. At only eighteen, Paisley Morgan wowed the Ballad FM contest judges with her unique blend of folk pop–inspired country music and heartfelt, poetic lyrics. Paisley’s also signed on with Exit 12S Records’ publishing arm as their newest, and youngest, in-house songwriter. There’s sure to be more great things to come from her,” Kirk Hoenig continues.

No pressure.

Kirk spreads his arms wide. “Let’s give a warm welcome to Paisley Morgan.”

My name rings out over the speakers like I’m being announced on The Price Is Right. My heart bounces around in my chest like it’s a game of Plinko.

A small patter of polite applause filters backstage. The audience seems as excited for me to go onstage as I am. (Which is to say, not very.)

“I can’t do this.” My guitar hangs on me like a lead weight, the tooled leather strap cutting into my shoulder.

“Sure you can.” Clint gives me a pat on the back that turns into a friendly nudge, and I half stumble onstage. Thank goodness I’m blocked from view by the heavy velvet curtains. My cheeks burn like I’ve leaned too close to a bonfire. I blink into the blinding stage lights that hit me when I walk forward and somehow manage to make my way to the microphone. My vision blurs. My ears ring. And my limbs feel like they’re filled with Great-Aunt Betty’s famous Christmas pudding. I might be having an out-of-body experience…

But at least I’m still standing. An image of Sir Elton John, decked out in fabulous jewel-encrusted sunglasses and a flamingo-pink feather boa, pops into my head. There’s zero chance he’s ever felt the level of stage fright that I’m feeling at this very minute.

I force down a swallow and run the pad of my pointer finger along the edge of my guitar pick.

I know I should look up from the scuffed stage—to channel some semblance of stage presence—but it’s impossible considering how hard I’m focusing on trying not to puke. My fingers are clutching the neck of my guitar so tightly, they’re starting to go numb. I force my left hand to loosen, and out of habit, I strum my right hand across the strings to double-check the tuning. Earsplitting feedback blares through the auditorium speakers.

I jump back like I’ve been electrocuted, and the speakers squeal again. A guy from the tech crew jogs onstage, lifts an arm in a friendly “just a sec” wave to the audience, and starts fiddling with the wireless pickup he’d previously attached to my guitar. A moment later, he gestures for me to step forward and I do, much to my regret. The jarring feedback makes my teeth ache.

It’s probably only been a minute, but I feel like I’ve been standing here for hours. My mouth is parched. Great. I smile-grimace at the crowd I can’t quite see beyond the glare of the stage lights, hoping I don’t look like an unhinged serial killer. Even though I can’t see them, I can feel them out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The audience grows as restless as I feel. I hear them shifting and murmuring to each other, their whispers getting louder until they drown out the low, humming buzz from the speakers.

“…Six String Justice…”

“…some local chick…”

“…waste of time…”

The tech guy signals to the person in the sound booth, and after a few snaps and crackles, there’s a low hum. Suddenly, the speakers go quiet. “Sorry about that, folks,” says the guy in the sound booth. “We just had a few technical difficulties there. Should be all sorted out now.”

The tech guy ushers me back to the mic. Somehow, I manage to step forward on trembling legs, wincing as I wait for feedback or random audience members to jeer at me, but now all I’m met with is incredibly awkward silence.

“Hi. Uh…I’m…uh, Paisley Morgan.” I clear my throat. Take a fortifying breath. And try to remember which lyrics go with which chords. “This first song is called ‘Dust and Tears.’ ”

I remember strumming an E-minor chord, and after that, the whole performance is a blur. I might have warbled my way through my three-song set in a pitchy, reedy voice. I might have spoken in tongues. Or danced the Hokey Pokey. It’s equally as likely I was abducted by aliens and had my memory wiped.

I’m not sure if this temporary blackout is a blessing or a curse.