Page 20 of Sweet Escape

Help. Comfort. Guide. Save.

Care. Protect. Trust. Guard.

The words get crossed out or erased or circled with arrows pointing in different directions, until I’m left with a few messy lines.

I thought you could save me.

Oh how I was wrong.

Instead you betrayed me.

Now my trust is gone.

It’s not the best. Far from it, actually. And I don’t even have my guitar. It’s tucked safely away in my room back at the inn. But every bit of music starts somewhere, is inspired by something.

I’m hoping Rosewood will provide me with that inspiration. That creative spark that can’t be forced.

What Idon’twant is for this bullshit with Theo to be the only thing I think about when I’m writing. There are plenty of artists who use their bad breakups to inform their music, and I don’t judge them for it. I get it. It’s traumatic and emotional and can create a wealth of content.

But it can’t be my only inspiration. Not when there is so much that can guide the creative process.

My mind briefly flickers over the memory of my kiss with Memphis, and my neck grows warm. I wonder if our midnight moment can prompt something ...anything... in my creative psyche.

With that thought, I flip to the next page, and start again.

I spend over an hour in front of Rosewood Roasters, letting my mind wander. Giving myself the chance to catch that inspiration. But in the end, apart from the few lines I wrote when I sat down, I only make a few notes about idle hands and what it means to sit around waiting for something to happen.

It feels very meta, and I’m worried that my initial desire to find inspiration in this town might have been half-baked. Most of the time, I have full faith in myself, but I wouldn’t be an artist if I didn’t face at least alittlebit of impostor syndrome. Though I didn’t expect it to rear its ugly head during the collapse of my relationshipanda period of intense creative block.

I can’t help the little prickle in the back of my mind that I won’t make my deadline. That I’ll have let this perfect storm of personal struggles ruin the most incredible opportunity I’ve ever had.

Just as I’m thinking it might be time to accept defeat and head back to the inn, my phone rings. And when I see my manager’s name on the screen, I groan, knowing I need to answer.

Reluctantly, I answer the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Todd.”

“Hey, Viv. How’s the writing coming?”

“Good. I’m actually sitting in front of a coffee shop with my notepad right now,” I tell him, honestly.

“Nice. Anything good coming to you?”

“Oh yeah. I’m really in the zone,” I tell him, not so honestly.

“Great. Glad to hear that. Especially with your studio time right around the corner. I’m thinking you should come in to the office and we can go over your songs, create a priority sheet for what we’d like to focus on first.”

My heart launches into my throat.

Shit.

“Well ... there might be a problem with me coming in.”

Todd’s silent for a beat. “Okay,” he eventually says, drawing out the end of the word. “What kind of problem?”

I sigh. “I’m not in LA right now.”

“Vivian. We talked about your schedule for this month, and you said you didn’t have any trips planned. ‘I won’t be going anywhere, I’ll be sitting at home, writing and focusing on getting ready for the studio.’ Those were your exact words.”

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