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Lizzie grimaced when she saw Terry’s number pop up on her phone. She let his call go to voicemail, and she avoided listening to his message the rest of the afternoon. But when he texted her, she knew she couldn’t avoid him forever.

Lizzie, it’s Terry. The label called me today. They say if you don’t finish at least one song within three months, they’ll drop you from the label. I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but my hands are tied.

Lizzie sank down onto the couch and sighed. She couldn’t blame Terry—he couldn’t force the label to do anything it didn’t want. She hadn’t put out a new album in two years now, although she’d been touring up until last fall. She’d told herself at first that she was just too busy to write, but now she didn’t have that excuse. She couldn’t write. It was like something had literally blocked the words and the notes.

She stared at her guitar sitting against the wall of her living room. It looked almost judgmental right then. W