Page 43 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“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 naïve 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.