I didn’t have to reply because Monty straightened in his seat and gave Hunter a “duh” look. “What about all the other people who work for him? The venues, logistics, and ticket sale companies? After everybody grabs their share, there’s not much left. Plus, Mr. Riley pays generous bonuses to everyone on his staff, hires local businesses, and donates a pile to charities in every city he visits.”
“Stop calling me Mr. Riley. Makes me think of my dad,” I muttered, and bit off another piece from my burger.
“That’s impressive, Laurel,” Hunter said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Least I can do,” I mumbled around a mouthful. The patty was nice—crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, with a strong garlicky flavor. This wasn’t the last time I’d order a veggie burger here.
“Question is, what are we going to do about your creative block?” Monty said.
I quirked an eyebrow and swallowed. “We?”
“There’s a bunch of tricks online, but a lot of it sounds…” He waved a hand in the air. “Hokey. One thing I read made sense. You have to feel joy when you’re writing songs, right? I mean, the songs can be sad too, but in the end, you need to have fun doing it, right? The article said that for the artist, the process must be more important than the product. So if you don’t feel the joy of creating something, and it becomes a chore, then the music gets shitty.”
I was staring at him with my mouth open. What was he going on about?
Since neither Hunter nor I said anything, Monty must have felt compelled to produce another verbose salvo. He leaned forward, his eyebrows drew together, and he pointed at me with both hands.
“You need to find the joy again. Like, you started making music not because you wanted to become famous, but because it was fun to make music, right? It was about the process, not the product. You need to feel the joy during the process and forget about the product.”
He moved his big paws over the table and slapped his palms against it at the end, making me jerk.
“Process. Not product,” he enunciated. “I bet that if you sit down with a guitar and think, ‘I have to write a great song,’ it never works.”
Sedric put our beers on the table, buying me some time to digest what Monty was babbling about. It was more or less whatmy therapist was trying to get into my head, at least the thing about the expectations I put on myself, but the rest of it… Monty made it sound so simple.Find the joy.
The music changed, and I recognized the first chords ofTaken. There were only so many times you could listen to your own music before you started hating it. Was Jordy in charge of the playlist? Did he realize he was playing my own hit to me? I glanced at the bar, but he was engrossed in a conversation with the sheriff. The one with the ridiculous nickname. Chick? Chicken?
Hunter and Monty didn’t seem to notice either, so I didn’t say a thing and ate. I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to get attention by pointing out my own song.
I didn’t hate it, per se. It was a good song, and the sight of the rippling crowd of freaking fifty thousand people, shouting the lyrics, was still fresh in my head. It was a good song, yes. Why didn’t it make me happy?
When was the last time I felt happy just sitting by myself with a guitar, plucking at the strings, humming to myself, and thinking, ‘this sounds nice’…?
Hunter cleared his throat. “And you researched artist burnout why exactly?” he asked Monty.
Monty shrugged. “I just want to help.”
Gaze on his beer, Hunter chuckled humorlessly. “Monty, newsflash, telling people what to do to solve their problems rarely helps with anything. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
I smirked. “Patients not listening to good advice?”
“Almost never. It’s always ‘doc, fix it,’ and never ‘what should I do to fix it.’ Changing your habits, the way you think, your behavior might be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.”
He said it with seriousness, in the calming doctor’s voice he had, and it drove home the magnitude of my task. If I were everto get back to enjoying my music and my life, I had to change my own damned self.
“But you do enjoy writing your own music, don’t you?” Monty pressed.
I used to, but it felt way too raw to say it out loud. Instead, I asked, “Don’t you have your own issues to focus on, Montgomery?”
Monty grinned. “Not really.”
I eyed Hunter. “What’s his deal?”
“Nothing,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “This bastard here is just as happy-go-lucky as he looks. The only thing that gets him into trouble is his big mouth, but Monty doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem. Do you, Monty?”
The big bear spread out his arms, his warm eyes twinkling. “I’m honest.”
“Don’t confuse honesty with thoughtlessness,” Hunter said.
