Page 17 of Ambiguous
The sea does not, in fact, deliver me a song, so I keep walking.
In the past, songs have come to me as downloads from the universe, revving to be heard. Now I feel like a stalled engine. No flow. Nothing.
There has to be something to write about. I dig my toes into the sand.
Rock. Pebble. Sand. Seaweed. Bird. Bird shite. Ocean.
None of that feels like the emotion I need in a song. Maybe I just need to keep walking. Maybe something will come to me.
Please, something. Come to me.
My mobile chimes in my pocket. I glance at it. It’s Colin.
I glance up at the sky.Not quite what I was asking for.
However, latching on to any available distraction is the part of the creative process known as procrastination. I’m familiar with it, since I’ve been in it for several years. I answer my phone.
“Colin,” I say. “Hello.”
“Jules.” I hear him clear his throat. “Um, hey. How are you?”
He’s stalling. That’s never a good sign. “Just fine.”
“Good, good.” A pause. “And record sales?”
“They’re fine, too.”
“Excellent.”
The line is silent. I sit down on my bum in the sand next to a bulbous strand of green seaweed, all of me focused on him. “Can I help you with something?” Being the protective older brother is an ingrained habit.
He sighs. “Natalie’s thrown me out.”
Things seem to always be tough for Colin. I rub my hand down my face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I don’t have a place to stay.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.
What I want to say is,You’re an adult, and that’s not my problem. OrHaven’t I bailed you out of enough situations?
“What are your plans?” I ask.
“I was kind of hoping I could come and stay with you. If you don’t mind,” he stammers.
I’d never turn him away. Not with our upbringing. Nor the guilt I feel about where each of us is today. “I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I want to tell him that I like my privacy and to get a hotel, but given the size of my house, I don’t want to be a bellend.
“Okay, I’ll see you soon. I’m almost done packing.”
I shove my phone in my pocket and stare out at the never-ending ocean, still unsatisfied and now slightly peeved. Standing, I pick up a pebble and throw it as far as I can.
The conversation didn’t give me anything except a distraction from my songwriting process. Whatever that is. It’s like that joke about the Holy Roman Empire: not holy, Roman, or an empire. My songwriting process has no songs, no writing, and no process.
I keep walking up the beach.
