From up here, he could be mistaken for peaceful. Relaxed. But he keeps shaking his head in disgust, which tells the real story. I saw him constantly do that on the boat yesterday, when he was unhappy with the words on the page.
Something inside me softens. I want to be pissed at him. To hate him for the way he mocks me and makes light of my feelings, accusesme of wanting attention. But it’s difficult to hold on to anger when he’s sitting there like that, clearly battling something inside himself. And because being a bleeding heart is one of my fatal flaws, I suddenly feel bad about calling him a moody asshole.
I don’t think his problem is mood swings. I think…he’s stuck. Beyond writer’s block. Beyond insomnia. Looking at him now, I don’t see a guy who lashes out because he’s a dick. I see one who’s unhappy with his life and can’t find his way forward.
Before I can stop myself, I go outside and descend the steps to the dock.
He must hear the snapping of my flip-flops, but he doesn’t look up. His pencil sits loosely between his fingers. In the distance, the sun is starting to drop behind the trees, creating a golden aura around his head.
“Hey.” I pause a short distance away.
“Hey.”
I move closer, my curiosity getting the better of me as I glance at the page in front of him. I see scratches and smudges, circles around words, and entire phrases crossed out with aggressive strokes.
“Wanted to check if you’re coming up for dinner,” I say. “Should I make extra?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.” He sounds distracted.
“How’s the song going?”
“It’s not.” His profile is tight, revealing his frustration.
“I’m sorry.” I watch him shove the leather cover closed and set it beside him. “I love that you write in a notebook. So old school of you,” I remark, trying to lighten the mood.
He finally glances at me, only briefly, before looking at his pencil, twisting it between his fingers. “Yeah. I like seeing the words on the page.”
“Does it make a difference?” I ask curiously.
“Sort of. I don’t know.” He spins the pencil again. “Writing it down feels…messier. More authentic. When I type shit out on my phone or on a laptop, it doesn’t feel real. It becomes too polished before I know what I’m actually trying to say.”
I nod slowly. “That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Writing it by hand is like…like you’re physically connected to the page. I get that.”
He gives a noncommittal grunt.
“So what’s the song about?” I ask.
“It’s not working.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It doesn’t matter, Blake. It’s a shit song. I’ve been sitting out here for days trying to force something that isn’t there.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
A frown touches my lips. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I haven’t written anything decent in a year. It all feels forced. Repetitive. Generic.”
I hear the shame that drips from that last word. I suppose every musician dreads being viewed as generic.
“I’m turning twenty-five this year, and I don’t even have a backup plan. If I can’t make a living making music, what the hell else am I supposed to do?”
