Hard Work

Allen sat at his desk, his fingers idly drumming on the wood as he stared at the screen in front of him. He'd spent most of the past couple of days planning out how he was going to tackle the upcoming weeks. The showcase at The Hive was looming ever closer, and though he had managed to make some strides—upgrading his vocal talent and getting more streams than he ever thought possible—he still felt like he was barely keeping his head above water.

The pressure was mounting. It was almost like there was a ticking clock inside his head, reminding him that time was running out. And with each passing second, the weight of everything he still needed to improve on grew heavier.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, glancing at the guitar that sat propped up against the wall. It seemed almost taunting, a reminder that his skills were nowhere near where they needed to be. His guitar playing had always been serviceable—enough to get by in a casual setting—but now? Now, he needed it to be more than just passable. He needed it to stand out.

And then there was the songwriting. Sure, Fading Lights had done better than he could have ever dreamed, but one song wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to prove that he wasn't just a one-hit wonder or someone who'd gotten lucky once. He needed to build a catalog of songs that people would remember, songs that would keep them coming back for more.

He was so deep in thought that he almost didn't hear his phone buzz on the desk. When he picked it up, his heart skipped a beat—it was a message from the songwriting group he'd reached out to the day before.

"Hey Allen, we'd love to have you join us! We meet on Tuesdays at 7 PM at the coffee shop on 5th Street. Feel free to bring anything you're working on, and we can all give feedback. Looking forward to meeting you!"

Allen stared at the message for a moment, his mind racing. He'd taken the first step, reaching out and putting himself out there, but now that it was real, the anxiety started to creep in. What if his songs weren't good enough? What if they ripped him apart and told him he had no business writing music?

But he shook his head, trying to push the doubts aside. He had to stop thinking like that. If he wanted to improve, he had to be willing to take the criticism, to learn from it, and get better. That was the only way forward.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, typing out a quick response. "See you guys on Tuesday."

With that done, he set his phone aside and turned back to the task at hand. The guitar. He grabbed it, the familiar weight settling in his lap as he adjusted his fingers on the fretboard. He had been practicing more over the past few days, but it still felt clunky—like his hands didn't quite know what to do.

He started running through some scales, trying to focus on the precision of his movements. His fingers slid across the strings, missing a few notes here and there, but he kept at it. After a few minutes, he shifted into playing one of the songs he'd written, but it didn't sound right. The transitions were sloppy, and the rhythm was off. Frustration bubbled up inside him, and he had to resist the urge to hurl the guitar across the room.

Instead, he set it down gently, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his chair again. This wasn't working. He couldn't keep going at it like this, expecting things to magically improve overnight. He needed guidance. He needed someone to point out what he was doing wrong and show him how to fix it.

That's when it hit him—the guitar teacher. He had bookmarked the page for the local teacher who specialized in rock and pop guitar. Maybe now was the time to finally pull the trigger on that. It was a bit of an investment, sure, but if he was serious about this—and he was—then it was worth it.

Without giving himself time to second-guess, Allen opened his laptop and pulled up the teacher's page. His name was Doug, and from the reviews, it seemed like he knew his stuff. People praised his ability to break down complex concepts and make them easier to understand, which sounded exactly like what Allen needed.

He shot Doug a quick message, explaining that he was a songwriter who needed to brush up on his guitar skills for an upcoming performance. He wasn't sure how long it would take for Doug to respond, but to his surprise, a reply came almost immediately.

"Hey Allen! I'd be happy to help. I have some availability later this week if you'd like to come in for a trial lesson. Let me know what works for you, and we can get something scheduled."

Allen felt a surge of relief. This was it. He was finally taking concrete steps toward improving, and for the first time in days, he felt like he was gaining some control over the situation.

"How about Thursday?" he typed back.

"Thursday works! See you then. Looking forward to it!"

With that settled, Allen felt a little better. He still had a mountain to climb, but at least now he had a plan. He had the songwriting group, the guitar lessons, and plenty of time to practice. He just had to keep pushing forward.

Later that night, after hours of practicing, Allen sat back at his desk and checked his stream count. Fading Lights was still doing well, sitting comfortably at around 35,000 streams. It wasn't skyrocketing, but it was steadily climbing. If he kept at it, he might just hit 50,000 by the time the showcase rolled around.

But that wasn't enough. He needed more songs, more material to keep the momentum going. He opened up a blank document on his laptop and stared at the cursor blinking on the screen. The words didn't come easily. They rarely did. But he forced himself to start typing anyway, knowing that the first draft didn't have to be perfect. It just had to exist.

As he wrote, he thought about the showcase. The pressure was building, but now it felt more like a challenge than a burden. He was determined to go in there and prove himself, not just to the audience or the industry people who might be watching, but to himself. He had come this far, and he wasn't going to let fear or doubt hold him back anymore.

The next morning, Allen woke up early. He had set his alarm intentionally—there was no time to waste anymore. If he wanted to succeed, he needed to make the most of every day leading up to the showcase. After grabbing a quick breakfast, he went straight into practice mode.

He worked on his guitar playing for hours, running through scales, chord progressions, and some of the new material he was working on. His fingers fumbled at times, but he was starting to notice some improvement. It was small, but it was there. And that was enough to keep him going.

In the afternoon, he took a break from the guitar and shifted his focus to songwriting. He pulled up the song he had started the night before and began tweaking the lyrics. It still wasn't flowing the way he wanted it to, but that was okay. He would take it to the songwriting group on Tuesday and get some feedback. Maybe they'd have ideas on how to make it better.

As the day wore on, Allen felt a growing sense of purpose. He had been floundering for the past couple of weeks, unsure of what to do next, but now everything was falling into place. He had a plan, a path forward, and the tools he needed to make it happen.

By the time evening rolled around, he was exhausted but satisfied. He had put in the work today, and though there was still a long way to go, he could feel himself getting closer to where he needed to be.

Before bed, he checked his phone, hoping for a notification about Fading Lights climbing higher on the charts, but there was nothing new. That was fine. He knew the music industry was a marathon, not a sprint. And if there was one thing Allen had learned over the past few weeks, it was that patience was just as important as talent.

As he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Allen felt a strange sense of calm. He wasn't where he wanted to be yet, but he was getting there. And for now, that was enough.

Tomorrow, he'd wake up and do it all over again. More practice, more writing, more planning. It wasn't glamorous, and it wasn't easy, but it was what he had to do. Because if there was one thing Allen knew for sure, it was that he wasn't going to stop until he made it.

The showcase at The Hive was just the beginning.