Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The breakfast burrito arrives loaded with scrambled eggs, chorizo, and enough green chilies to make my eyes water. I eat slowly, savoring the first decent meal I’ve had since leaving LA.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Heard you’re in Nashville. Let’s grab a drink and talk about your future. -Nina Reyes, Pinnacle Music Group.
I delete it without responding. The music industry moves fast, but I’m learning to move slowly. Deliberately. Like I’ve got time to figure out who Darian Mercer is when he’s not trying to hold a band together or manage other people’s egos.
I finish breakfast and walk back toward Rattlesnake Guitars, taking a longer route that leads me past venues I’ve never heard of but somehow want to know. The Songbird catches my attention—a narrow building squeezed between a vintage clothing store and a coffee roasters, with hand-painted signs advertising live music seven nights a week. The windows are dark this early, but something about the place draws me closer.
A chalkboard by the door lists tonight’s lineup: Open Mic Night - 8 PM - All genres welcome - Sign up starts at 7.
I stand there longer than I should, reading the names of musicians I don’t recognize but might want to meet. The city hums around me—traffic and conversation and somewhere in the distance, a saxophone playing something that sounds like hope mixed with morning coffee.
This is what I came here for. Not the tourist attractions or industry connections, but this: the chance to be just another songwriter in a city full of them. To write music because I have to, not because someone’s waiting for it.
To remember what it feels like when music chooses you instead of the other way around.
I walk back to the guitar shop with that thought settling in my chest like the first deep breath after holding it too long. The woman with the violin continues playing, her melody weaving through the morning air like a soundtrack for new beginnings. Benny waves from behind the counter. A small crowd surrounds her, listening to her play. Some drop money into her case, while others pass by.
Upstairs, I unlock my apartment door and step inside. Already, this place feels more like home than my house in California. How is that possible? I take my car keys out of my pocket and add my apartment key to the ring and then set them on the small table next to the door.
I head toward the bathroom to shower; words rush through my head:
Found myself in a city of second chances . . .
Where the music’s more honest than the people making it . . .
Where you can start over with nothing but a guitar and a willingness to listen . . .
Where you can start over with nothing but a guitar and a willingness to listen . . .
As much as I want to ignore them, I can’t. Sitting down, I pick up the Martin and find the progression I was working on earlier. Stopping and jotting down notes in my notebook when I get the chord right.
The song isn’t finished. Maybe it never will be. But for the first time in months, I’m writing music that sounds like me instead of like what I think people want to hear. That’s something. Maybe it’s everything.
rye
. . .
The last customer finally leaves at ten-thirty, guitar case bouncing against his hip as he pushes through the front door of The Songbird. I turn the deadbolt with more force than necessary and lean against the worn wood, listening to the silence settle around me like settling dust.
Another Thursday night, another dozen dreamers hoping someone in the audience might change their lives. Most nights I love this—the raw hope, the willingness to bleed on stage for strangers. Tonight feels different. Heavier. Like the weight of all those unfulfilled dreams, it is pressing down on my chest.
“That kid with the banjo.” Jovie emerges from behind the bar, silver hair escaping her bandana. “Played the same song three times in a row.”
“He was nervous.” I start collecting empty beer bottles from tables, their clink creating a familiar rhythm. “First time on any stage.”
“Nervousness doesn't make repetition sound better.” Jovie’s voice carries the dry humor of someone who’s watched thousands of musicians crash and burn. “Though I suppose we all start somewhere.”
The venue feels smaller in dim lighting, stripped of the magic that transforms it during performances. Twenty round tables crowd the space between the bar and the stage, each one bearing scars from years of elbows and drinks and dreams being discussed over cheap beer. A single microphone stands center stage, waiting for tomorrow’s batch of hopefuls.
I work my way toward the front, gathering bottles and wiping down surfaces that will be sticky again by this time tomorrow. We serve beer and wine only—nothing requiring more than thirty seconds to pour. This place exists for music, nothing more.