Page 57 of Christmas Trees & Weak Knees

While Paisley’s working at the gift shop this evening, I head to the studio to see if I can shake some ideas loose—literally. Maracas. Tambourines. Clappers. I even try a pair of castanets (olé!), but no ideas are sparked.

A little voice in the back of my mind whispers, Writer’s block.

Nope.

The problem is that I’m trying too hard. I’m putting too much pressure on myself—trying to be creative on demand—when I just need to let inspiration find a way in.

I sink into the chair Paisley sits in when she’s working on the mixing part of the process and drum my fingers on the table. Maybe what I need is silence.

What you need is an idea.

I’d really like the voice in the back of my mind to either say something useful or shut the hell up.

My eyes scan the desk and catch on the soft glimmer of gold-stamped flowers on a green, clothbound book tucked beneath a stack of blank music staff pages. I tug it out, careful not to scatter the loose papers resting on top.

There’s no name scrawled inside the front cover, so I flip it open to a random page to see if it’s some sort of recording logbook or maybe a guest book, where people leave notes to future musicians.

It’s neither of those things.

Neat handwriting in dark blue ink fills the lined pages. At the top of the page are a few notes.

Weather: Rainy

Mood: Pensive

Theme: Hope

Style: Folk

Below that is a short poem:

Last night I fell asleep to the sound of rain falling on the roof.

The sweet drip-drop lullaby that I found swept me away to a peaceful slumber.

I dreamed of June and our promises, of all those things we thought would last.

And woke smiling in the morning light, thoughts of you lingering.