Page 4 of The Bright Side of Christmas
As I knew he would, Greg loudly objects. “No, no, no, Adam, don’t be like that. You know, I just get excited about new material. I love working with you, you know that.”
He loves the paychecks he gets, is more like it. He loves that he gets the money without the headache of a performer who comes with an ego or the stress of bad press and tabloid rumors, since I’d rather stay under the radar.
Greg continues to talk in my ear, spinning stories of apology, saying I’m his favorite client and that he was just joking. As I often find myself doing when talking to Greg, I zone out. The thing is, I don’t need the money. As the bassist for Midnight Ash for ten years before we split up, and having written some decent hits that bring in consistent royalties, I don’t need the money. Especially when it’s just me, and I don’t need much of anything to keep myself happy.
But despite telling myself that over and over, I can’t deny that Iwantit. Iwantto overcome this.
Playing music and writing songs bring me happiness and have always been a much-needed escape.
Except for the recent glaring fact that Ihaven’tbeen happy. I keep having the nagging thought thatsomethingis missing—not that I’ll be sharing that with Greg, or anyone, for that matter.
While he talks, I continue to watch my preppy little neighbor stomp away, her shoulders set tightly. Her loose chocolate curls bob as she walks down my walkway before making a tight turn toward her house, the red ribbon tying back the top half of her hair dancing happily in contrast to her agitated movements.
“I’d love another holiday hit like ‘All Lit Up’; that would be fucking sick. I could get someone in the booth right away, use it for this year even.”
“I’m not doing another fucking Christmas record,” I say quickly. My biggest hit to date was some random junk I wrote in ten minutes, and it has gotten more streams than any of the songs I’ve put my entire heart and soul into. Number two and three in my most-streamed songs I’ve produced and written are also holiday songs. It’s become a sore spot for me, and I decided last year that I wouldn’t write holiday songs anymore.
How good of a songwriter could I really be if my biggest hit is some holiday-themed bullshit? It’s become such a thorn for me that hearing “All Lit Up” or any of the other Christmas songsI’ve written, which happens from November to December and, recently, creeping into October, makes my skin crawl. I’ve begun to dread the holiday season, knowing that my personal failure will once again haunt and taunt me.
It’s probably also why the writer's block is hitting so hard right now, although I won’t be telling Greg that.
I should probably have been a bit less of an ass. Still, I made a rule long, long ago for myself: I would never pretend to be someone I’m not, be it for my parents or fans or my manager, and Greg toeing the line as he always seems to do reminds me I don’t actually want to be on this call at all.
“And listen, Greg. I told you, I’m not working on your timeline. Never was, never will be. If you want a piggy bank that performs when you tell it to, check out social media for one. I’m sure they’ll jump when you say jump. That won’t be me. I’ll let you know when I have something for you.” I pull the phone from my ear and end the call.
Getting into this business at such a young age, with Midnight Ash getting picked up when I was barely eighteen, and even long before then, when I was battling my parents' expectations of me, I learned quickly that you either stand your ground and protect your boundaries, or you’ll get steamrolled.
Greg doesn’t actually care about me; he wants to see if I have something new that will make him even more money than he already has.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb in case he calls back, then set it on a table, crossing my arms on my chest as Wren walks up the steps to her porch and opens her door with more force than is needed before slamming it loud enough that I can hear it from here. And despite the dark cloud that always seems to hang over my head when I’m reminded of my writer’s block, I smile.
That night, I stayed up late, scribbling in a notebook into the dead of night and trying to come up with something to get Greg off my ass, and once again coming up with nothing.
Six months ago, I hit a wall with my songwriting. Every time I sit in front of the piano or hold an instrument, nothing comes. I put a pen in my hand, and where I used to spill out words onto paper, there’s silence. I bought a pretentious typewriter, hoping it might help, but instead, I spent nearly two weeks trying to find one I liked and another week procrastinating on playing with paper and ink types instead of writing a damn word. When all of my procrastination attempts ran out, I realized I was the problem.
I convinced myself I needed to get away, go somewhere quiet, and remind myself who I am or something like that. The city was too loud. I figured that must be the source of my creative block, and a change of scenery would fix my problems for good. How could my muse whisper to me when people were yelling all hours of the day?
Four weeks ago, I remembered someone mentioning this tiny town in Northwest New Jersey, Holly Ridge, and found a place for sale, buying it sight unseen.
Peace and quiet and anonymity. That’s what I needed.
And I found it here, but I’m still…stuck.
I initially thought it was just a matter of settling in, so I spent days unpacking and assembling furniture in rooms I'd likely never use. I painted a room, then decided I hated painting, changed out light fixtures, and cleaned every inch of the home as if it were a profession. But eventually, I had nothing left to do but stare at a piece of paper once again.
Nothing.
Across the way, a light upstairs in Wren’s house switches on, and my head raises to look. Despite my indifference to my neighbor, I’ve been intrigued by her since I moved in. She’salways doing something, always up late in her office, which happens to be right across from mine. Sometimes, she seems to be writing on paper, which makes me wonder what she does for work, especially since she’s up early every morning.
Even though it makes me a bit creepy, I watch her from where I sit for the next hour.
I don’t write.
I don’t do anything productive. Instead, I watch her, hunched over at her desk. I watch her rub her eyes tiredly. I watch her yawn plenty. Eventually, I watch her stand up and look at her desk as if she’s frustrated she isn’t done yet, but has to succumb to her exhaustion. Then she walks away before the light flicks out.
I sit there, staring at the dark window for a few moments longer, and then it comes to me.
It’s small: five chords that could be nothing at all, but it’s the first little hint of a melody that’s come to me in months. I quickly scribble them down, though nothing comes after, even as I sit there for twenty more minutes, willing more to come. Eventually, I sit back and rub a hand over my face before checking the clock and deciding it’s probably time to head to bed, though I do it with a little less hopelessness than the night before.
