It Starts With Him

16

Picture: Devyn's mom

When I was fifteen, I was sitting with mom in her studio. In Madison, she had turned our garage into a music studio for herself, but eventually, also for me.

She had the metal blinds off of the windows so the natural light was always flowing in. She had a desk where she kept her songbook and more pens than I could count. She must have had over thirty pens, but was so prone to losing them she would buy a new pack every two weeks.

She tore up old white curtains that used to be in the living room and hung them over the rafters in the wooden roof to create a sort of streamer effect. A homemade vase I made rested on top of her piano. She had a garden right outside the garage, and every week she would replace the flowers in the vase with new ones, such as an arrangement of daylilies, geraniums, and carnations so that the studio would never lose its color.

There was a seating area in the far back corner where dad was sitting this one particular day. Mom was really the only one who spent time in the studio, but dad had sat there this time to get some work done. He thought maybe it would help him get stuff done as it did with mom.

Mom and I didn't see him when we walked into the studio after she picked me up from school that day. She held the white painted doors open for me, and I smelled in the familiar but rare smell.

"I want to show you something," she had said, a sweet smile on her lips. She had sat me down at the cushioned seat in front of the piano and pulled out her songbook from her desk. She sat next to me and placed the obviously loved and well-used book in my lap. I stare at it. This was one of her most prized possessions. One she didn't let anyone look into.

"See this?" she said, tapping on the leather cover. I nod. It was covered in faded writing that no one could read anymore and some worn stickers that must have been applied long ago. The pages of the book were so thick that the spine was nearly cracking. Mom had pasted little things to each page from what inspired her, so over time, it built up. For example, if she got inspiration from a garden, she would paste the head of a flower on the said page.

"I've heard you singing in your room. I know you wrote those songs," she says, and I blush. "You have talent, Devyn. I want you to have this book so you can use it for your own work. You'll eventually need a new one since there are only about fifty blank pages in this one, but I think it'll serve you well."

I stare up at her, the light flooding in from the windows highlighting her face. "But you love it," I start. "But I love you more than anything. You can even read my music if you want. I want you to have it. I want you to use it," she explained to me. I looked back down at the book. She'd had this for nearly 10 years, and it wasn't even full yet.

"How often am I supposed to write in it?" I asked her, and she kissed my forehead. "Well, you can do what most famous singers do. Just write constantly. It doesn't matter if you have writer's block. Just force it out. But let me ask you, Dev, which do you think will make better music? Forcing it out no matter what, or actively searching for inspiration so it will flow out of your fingers? It doesn't matter if you aren't spitting out four songs a week. Just search for inspiration. Look for it. And write."

"What do I look for in inspiration?" I asked, still confused. Anything? Something pretty? She smiles at me and pushes the book to my chest.

"Find something that makes you excited. Something that lights you up. Something that strikes you. Find that and hold onto it."

I stare at dad, wondering if he's finished telling this story. He's staring at me intently over his steaming cup of coffee, and I look down at my pancakes.