Page 19 of Missed Exit

I will eventually have to face reality again. And the reality is, I’m going to have to go back to teaching. Or to some other real job. I tear out the notebook page I’ve been scribbling on, ball it up, and toss it at the small trashcan next to my bed.

It hits the rim, bounces off, and lands in a pile with my other discarded, crumpled pages from tonight’s writing session.

Maybe I should try writing on my laptop again. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that writing by hand would result in more authentic words. Using a pen isn’t working any better than the keyboard.

Not every page gets torn out and thrown away. I have pages and pages of unfinished projects that I’ve kept. Finishing something would feel like such a win right now. Even when I get off to a good start, I hit a road block.

Inspiration still strikes and words still come to me, but they always stop too soon.

They say the hardest part of writing is getting started, but that’s not true for me. The hardest part is knowing what comes next. I’m great at beginnings, but that’s as far as I get.

I have one finished piece. One.

You can’t be a successful songwriter with just one song. Besides, even if a miracle happened, and that song did become a success, it’s nobody’s dream to be a one-hit wonder.

10

Law

A Shot and a Half

Iwaketothesound of my overnight guest dropping a glass in the kitchen.

And if the sound of glass shattering on a tile floor isn’t loud enough, the volume on the expletive that follows could wake the dead. There’s no doubt it will wake Greta.

Perfect. Not regretting last night’s decision at all.

My eyes are still struggling to focus as I open my bedroom door and stagger toward the kitchen, hoping I don’t have to put my shoes on and drive this bumbling idiot to the emergency room.

“Mornin’,” Derringer says. “Sorry about the glass.”

“I’m more worried about my neighbor, who I’m sure was still asleep until you yelled at this unholy hour on a Sunday morning.”

His disheveled morning look would make for a great publicity photo. All he’d have to do is spread that white-toothed grin across his face and he’d go viral. Young women would flock to his comments to tell him how pretty he is—and a host of other stuff they really shouldn’t post to the eternal archive of the internet.

I look down at his bare feet to be sure there’s no blood soaking into my grout.

If that sounds uncaring, it’s because I don’t care.

Any potential cuts on Derringer’s feet mean far less to me than the thought of Greta losing sleep.

His toes are all still intact. Charmed as always.

“Don’t move. Let me sweep this shit up.”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose. I needed water.”

“I have no doubt. You probably also need food.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“You burned through your quota of terrible ideas last night.”

“Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“If you were already signed, PR would be stirring anti-anxiety meds into their coffee this morning. Do everyone, including yourself, a goddamn favor and stay off stages you haven’t been invited to perform on.”

“I hop up on stage spontaneously all the time. The fans love it.”

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