“I DON’T WANT to f*****g be here anymore!” Cash yells at me, throwing the notebook across the room. It skitters across the floor and slides into the wall.
We’re both wrecked.
The coffee ran out hours ago, and I think we are going mental from lack of sleep. Cash buries his face in the palms of his hands. His elbows are propped up on his thighs, and although I know how hard this is for him, I can feel it in my bones that this is right.
This is the process.
The creation of something significant is not without suffering.
“I’m not a song writer!” Cash argues, standing to pace the studio for what seems like the hundredth time.
I pick up the notebook and place it on the table next to a dozen paper cups laced with remnants of stale coffee. We’ve written a few verses, but it’s not a song yet.
