I wake in a messy apartment, empty cans and bottles lining the floor and clothes strung across the furniture, with a dry, raspy throat and a pounding head. I let out a little groan at the missed call and voicemail from my agent wanting to give feedback on last night's song submission. With a desperate need for caffeine, I trudge to the kitchen, wading through my own tangible hopelessness, wallowing in the only sort of tortured pity a creative could conjure.
After a brief phone call and some hard truths from my surprisingly encouraging agent, I'm off to a cabin in the woods to find myself in the melody of a trickling stream and the whistling of the wind through the forest pines, you know, all that juicy 'woe is me, but nature will sort it out' stuff. Because I'm suffering from writer's block - an ailment that's plagued me since experiencing the loss of a loved one. And now Project Songbird's creator is talking to ME, which is equally unsettling. I