Chapter Text
January 2023
“Get a grip. Don’t hear from you for months then hit me with a ‘how you’ve been?’. I’ve been moving on, so get a grip. I’m not holding onto memories you won’t let slip, so get a grip.”
He’s pretty sure the Uber driver doesn’t recognise him. His latest single is playing on the radio even though it’s been out for months. When the driver starts humming along, Buck just pulls his cap slightly further down his face and hopes the driver doesn’t realise who he is.
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy fan interactions, he’s more than happy to take pictures with fans when he runs into them in public, but right now, he’s exhausted. He’d been back from his U.S. tour for two weeks and had spent those two weeks trying to sleep it off and write new music. The tour had been two months of sleeping in a bus or on a plane, sometimes even a couch backstage with a pillow pressed against his head trying to muffle the noise of soundcheck in between constant shows, rehearsals, and interviews. His throat had reached a new level of hoarse, and he was beginning to think the stiffness in his back caused by small and thin mattresses would never go away.
Before he could worry too much about being recognised, or get lost in his own thoughts, the Uber pulled up to his house. It was only early in the afternoon, but he was already considering just going back to bed. His record label had so gracefully allowed him one full week to himself before demanding he be back in the studio with their team of songwriters who apparently preferred to work before the sun had even risen. The past week had been a cycle of waking up before dawn, arriving at the studio, politely rejecting the new song the hired writers had produced for him, and creating excuses for why he hadn’t written anything himself. It had only been two weeks since he got home, and in Buck’s mind that meant he’d only had two weeks to begin writing again. Apparently, however, his label had expected him to continue writing during his busy tour schedule.
The label had even begun to arrange another American tour, although much shorter this time, for when he announces his next album. They had emphasised the importance of ‘maintaining the hype’ whatever that meant, including getting him back on the road as soon as he releases his next album… As soon as he can actually write it.
When Buck first started songwriting, his main motivation was trying to get back to the 118. Every emotion he felt, the frustration, the longing, and the pain all funnelled into his music. Yet, despite how bad he felt while writing the music that ended up being part of his first album, it was those emotions that reviewers loved and had helped propel his album, and his overall popularity, into what it was today. Now that he had accepted what had happened, and settled into his new way of life, his emotions had tempered. Of course, that meant he felt better mentally, but it also meant he was in dire need of new inspiration for new songs.
He had contemplated re-recording some demos that had been rejected for his debut album, but it felt insincere. He was proud that his music was authentic and true to his feelings, but those feelings had passed and he knew the emotion in the music wouldn’t be the same. So, it was time to find some new motivation.
Ironically, it would be easier if he had gone through a few more near-death experiences since his last album as it might’ve provided him with some of those hurt and sorrowful emotions that penetrated his lyrics, but Buck wasn’t about to go looking for trouble just so he could write a new song.
Walking into his house, he looked upon his bay window. A deep-set, built-in seat that overlooked his small garden, and it had become his favourite spot for writing new songs. His guitar was resting against the wall, and crumpled balls of paper sat on the seat and the floor. He didn’t like discarding lyrics like that, he preferred to hold onto them in case they ever called to him again, but recently he’d been feeling so frustrated with himself. He found himself writing new lyrics to melodies he’d already written, or getting four lines into a verse and being unable to think further.
As much as he wanted to head straight back to bed, he couldn’t leave his writing spot like this. He walked forward and picked up the guitar, placing it back into its stand that stood to the right of the window, and bent down to pick up all the balls of paper. It wasn’t the first day he had come home to crumpled up lyrics, and Buck was sure it wouldn’t be the last either.
He just needed to find something new in his life. Whatever that may be.