Sudden Song

What I wouldn’t give to be Paul McCartney. Instead, I have the luck of being Paul Jonson. Yes, my parents had the audacity to name me after the songwriter. And in spite of myself, I only wish the resemblance went further than name alone.

Story goes some actor once challenged Paul—McCartney, of course—to write a song about whatever random idea the actor had. McCartney accepted. You’d think he would’ve given up when the actor told him to write a song about Pablo Picasso’s last words. This wasn’t some familiar topic like a love song that McCartney had already written dozens of. He was challenged to write something new, out of the blue.

And of course, like the lucky jerk he is, in a matter of minutes McCartney had already written his latest song, “Picasso’s Last Words.” He won the challenge. And once and for all he proved that he could write any song as quickly as the rest of us could listen to it.

And meanwhile I can’t even write at all.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried writing like that dozens of times. Long story short, my bandmates are still waiting for my masterpiece. It doesn’t matter what prompt I pick, what muse I pray to. At the end of each day, I have no Eleanor Rigbys or Blackbirds to show for my troubles. Just lots and lots of crumpled up pages torn from my yellow legal pad. When I showed up to Rex’s garage with no lyrics in hand the other day, he said to me with a sigh, “You keep promising tomorrow will be the day, and the day never comes.”

“Yesterday… all my troubles were all here to stay,” Danny sang from the drumkit. “Oh, every day is yesterday.”

I no longer had the will to say I’ve nearly had a breakthrough, that I’m on the verge of greatness. That just wasn’t true. I finally saw that. Some people aren’t cut out to be Paul McCartney. Some people are just Paul Jonson. Or at least I am.

“We can keep playing Beatles covers all day long if that’ll make you happy,” Danny said when I stayed quiet. “I think I’ve got a pretty good rendition of ‘Yesterday’ cooking up.”

“Maybe we should just quit,” I muttered.

“Paul, listen—” Rex began.

“No, if I’m such a disappointment, then there’s not much point of us being here, is there? If we can’t be great, we might as well do something else.”

“Paul, you can’t blame yourself that you’re not McCartney. He lives and breathes music. He can create songs like they’re nothing because songs are all that occupy his head. No one expects you can be the same as him.”

“But I should be! That’s why my parents named me after him, so I could grow up to be just like the great McCartney. And every day I get up early and try my hand at writing a song before work, and I try again every night from dinner until I fall asleep at my desk. I’ve been trying to live and breathe music too, and I just can’t do it.”

“You can be like Elvis,” Danny offered. “There’s always a path even for the musically illiterate.”

“You have to look and sound like a Greek god to pull off what Elvis did,” I grumbled. “For ordinary people like us, only talent counts. And we just don’t have it.”

“Excuse you!” Danny exploded. “I’m a mighty fine drummer, thank you very much. If you’re looking for a problem with this band, look at yourself!”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I quit.”

“Paul—” Rex began, with a glare at Danny.

“It’s okay, Rex. Not everyone can be a genius. I’m learning to accept that.”

“Not everyone has to be a genius to succeed,” Rex argued.

“Is that sort of success even worthwhile?”

I didn’t stay to wait for an answer.

Walking the several blocks back to my apartment, I tried to think about something else. But what else was there to think about? There was nothing even remotely interesting going on with my day job at Walmart. I had no social life outside of my band. All my life was invested in music, and as it turned out, it had been a bad investment. I had nothing to show for the many hours of effort.

I got home, reheated some leftover meatloaf for dinner, and sat down to eat. All I could think about the whole time was that this was somehow Rex and Danny’s fault. How could I ever succeed with such negative influences in my life? Danny just outright made fun of me. He never offered any help. And Rex, with all his good intentions, was even more infuriating. He could be as nice as he liked, but without ever having empathy, what was the use? I was alone, stranded in a world devoid of talent or inspiration. My only escape was to simply give up. If you can’t win the game, then get out of it before you’ve bet every chip.

Absentmindedly, I put my dishes away and then trudged into my bedroom. I stared at the little brown wooden desk in the corner, with the big yellow legal pad and G2 pen sitting on it waiting for me, beckoning to me. But I resisted the call. There was no point picking up that pen if I couldn’t use it to write anything worth singing.

Is that what Rex and Danny had known all along? That I had nothing to sing about? That when your life is dedicated to music at the expense of all else, you don’t even know enough about life to write about it? I tried, and I tried, and I tried to write, if not about myself, then about someone else, like McCartney wrote about Picasso. But it never worked. Every time I tried to write, I searched inside myself, and found no words. Unlike McCartney, I just had nothing to say.

I lay in bed, willing myself to go to sleep. What else was there for me to do? I had no other hobbies. I sat there, motionless, too upset to go to sleep, but too defeated to find anything else to do. So I did nothing, even thought nothing, and finally into my empty mind wafted a new idea. What if I embraced my enemy? There was only one topic I had avoided writing about: McCartney himself. I had never dared to describe how much I hated living in his massive shadow. About how jealous I was. But maybe there was something there. Maybe everyone could empathize with the agony of not being a genius, of not being able to measure up to that other person. Maybe if I put that out there into words, people would finally feel some release. Some release like what I wanted, freedom from my namesake.

With a deep breath, I got out of bed, sat at my desk, and began to write. Like never before, the words began to flow. I realized with a grin that I had finally discovered my creative block. And now that I was facing it, the floodgates were let loose. I could finally write. I could finally be a songwriter in my own right. In five minutes, the song was done. Not bad for Paul Jonson, I thought; in fact, even McCartney would be proud to have written the song that quickly. After that mental pat on the back, I read the lyrics over once and loved them. I couldn’t wait to see Rex and Danny’s faces when I showed up to our rehearsal after work the next day and with my own lyrics in hand.

With a smile on my face, I settled into my bed, and for the first time in many nights, I didn’t torment myself with all my failures. For the first time in a long time, I slept well.

In the morning, I started up with a sort of urgency. My eyes darted across the room, as I tried to remember what was so important. Finally, my eyes settled on the yellow legal pad. I shot out of bed, knowing I had to give that song one look over before I brought it to the band after work. I had to be sure that it really was as good as I had thought it was.

Standing at the desk, the legal pad in my hands, I scanned over it, once, twice, even three times. My heart sank as I realized it was terrible. The lyrics were childish, whiny, and extraordinarily petty. They weren’t a release, they were grating, like the screams of a petulant toddler. McCartney would be embarrassed to have these lyrics in his trash can. With a growl, I crumpled the paper up and tossed it aside.

I put on generic khaki pants and a collared shirt for work, and then I drove off to Walmart. For a day’s work in the sort of place where all us non-geniuses belong.