Page 37 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at my hands. “It does.”

“You know what you need? A break. Take a step back from it for a night or two. Clear your head. Sometimes you get too close to something and can’t see what’s missing.”

“I don’t have that kind of time,” I say flatly. “People expect new music from me now—even if it’s just those few regulars who seem to live here.”

“They’ll survive,” she says with a laugh. “You’re not Garth Brooks, Jack.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “You know what I mean. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to let them down. Or you. I know you like and need the crowds. I’m supposed to be the draw. I don’t want the polish to wear off just yet.”

“It won’t,” Aggie says. “They love you because you’re authentic, because you pour everything into your music—even when it doesn’t hit right away. That song? It’ll get there. And maybe Jinnie can help when she has time again.”

I love how easily Aggie sees through all my bullshit and goes straight for my heart every time.

“She will,” I say softly.

Aggie smiles knowingly but doesn’t press further.

“I’ll finish the floors. I think I’m going to go out to the old campsite tonight. I get a lot of inspiration out there.”

“That’s a good plan.” She smiles.

I finish the floors and leave the bar. I do miss the tent and creek and just being out there. The nights are getting cooler now and I’m grateful for the room in Aggie’s house, but I do wish I would have stayed in the tent just a little longer.

The headlights of my truck cut through the night as I bounce down the dirt road. I flash back to that very first night I found this place. I had the bag of Jinnie’s muffins and pretty much nothing else.

And look at me now.

The night air is crisp, just this side of cold. I build a small fire slowly, taking my time like it’s a ritual. There’s peace in the process—stacking the kindling, striking the match, watching the flame catch and grow. Once it’s burning steady, I settle down on the log bench and pull out my notebook.

Lyrics first.

I read through what I had. The words still mean something to me. That part isn’t broken. There’s heart in them—honest, bleeding-heart kind of stuff. But maybe it’s too much all at once. Maybe people don’t want to feel that deeply with a beer in hand.

I scrawl a few lines, cross them out. Rewrite. Rinse and repeat.

Eventually, I sigh and set the notebook down.

The words aren’t the problem. Not really.

I reach for my guitar, fingers already moving before I’ve consciously chosen a chord. It’s not the lyrics—it’s the structure. The flow. I’ve buried the hook too late, gotten too wrapped up in telling the story before giving people something to hold onto. The melody’s good, but it needs space to breathe. I start shifting things around, humming new transitions, adjusting the rhythm.

For a while, I forget the cold.

I forget the awkward silence after the song.

I forget everything but the way the strings feel under my fingers, the way the fire crackles beside me, and the slow, steady thrill that comes when a broken thing starts to come together again.

It’s not perfect yet. Not even close. But it’s better.

Jinnie would have spotted the problem after listening to it one time. This process is going to take a bit longer on my own.

I wonder what she’d think of the song. She listens differently. She hears the story in the notes, not just the words. Maybe I’ll play it for her soon. Maybe I won’t have to say much—just play and let her feel it.