The Blank Book

It didn’t take Maya long to figure out that if she wanted a music notebook, she wasn’t going to find it on the rack with the other little black notebooks. She sighed and looked out into the falling snow thinking about where the closest music store might be. She didn’t remember seeing one except all the way downtown in Boston two subway rides away. Being that she couldn’t even be sure the music store had survived the pandemic she decided against trying to get there that night. Maya turned back to the rack of notebooks to see if any of the little black notebooks on the rack could be used in a pinch to write music. She grabbed a lined one and headed to the cashier. Halfway there she decided that perhaps a completely blank one would work better as she could draw in what she needed so she turned back to the rack where she saw a young man, maybe half her age, looking as if he was deciding what he wanted. Maya stopped for a moment to give him a chance to decide, watching as he indecisively looked over the books. In a quick movement he suddenly took a small black book, identical to those on the shelf, out of his pocket and returned it to the shelf then turned and quickly left. She was intrigued at his actions and went over to look at what he had placed on the shelf. Had he considered stealing it but thought better of that and brought it back? Was he returning it for money? Seemed unlikely as he had not gone to cashier. His actions seemed strange. Maya wanted to see what he had put back on the rack, so she found the book he placed on the shelf and opened it. It was music ruled, just what she needed which somehow that made his actions seem even stranger. Other than the blank music staves, there was nothing in the book that she could see. Although she found it odd that a music book had suddenly appeared, Maya was delighted! She grabbed it and headed to the cashier, then out into the snowy night and home.

Once home Maya placed the book on her music table. She was starving and wanted to warm up her leftovers before settling in to write for the night. Maya briefly thought about turning the heat up a bit but grimaced at the thought of her latest heating bill and decided against it. As her leftovers warmed up, she warmed her fingers over the stove and considered what she wanted to write. She really needed to sell something, and soon, but what she had been writing lately, what had really interested her was not selling well. It was too earthy, too Americana, and not enough Pop which is where she usually made money. She had two ad jingles owed to a temp company but that really didn’t inspire her, besides they were not due until next week and getting in early did not translate into getting paid earlier. Perhaps she could get inspired to get back into more Pop by listening to Taylor Swift or another star who had a cross over between Pop and more country or Americana. Maya thought of other women singers that fit the bill but kept drifting back to less Pop and more storytelling, like the songs of Alison Krauss. She realized her hands were getting too warm and pulled them away. Dinner was ready, she sat down to eat.

The black music book sat for many days untouched. The music written was done on scraps of paper, the jingles finished and sent off. Checks were received and another month of rent was safe. Somehow that book seemed not meant for writing in, at least that is how Maya was starting to feel about it. Either that, or it was meant only for writing the most consequential of all music. It didn’t seem to be meant for the day to day writing of little ditties, and jingles that filled her days and paid the bills. Maya wasn’t sure why that was, but it could be because every time she looked at it, she thought about the young man who had placed it on the shelf that day. His actions made no sense, and the fact that it was just the book she was looking for spooked her maybe more than she was willing to admit. She had opened it a few times, examining the blank pages, willing herself to become inspired. Once she even took up pen in hand with the will to force ink on paper so as to start the process of filling up the blank spaces but failed. So there the black book sat, on the music table besides the scraps of paper she had hoped to replace.

Spring came and the snow ran off, joining the mighty Charles River to the sea. Maya finally took the little black notebook outside to the small square of yard and promised herself she would not go inside until she broke the silence and wrote music in it. It was ridiculous to be worried about how or why the book was put on the rack. She needed it, she got it, and she should use it. Maya took out her favorite pen and with a song that had been in her head for weeks, broke the barrier and wrote in the notebook and wrote and wrote and wrote. Somehow the notes just came tumbling out of the air, into her mind, and rushed through to her fingers, jumping on to the page. She occasionally reached for her guitar to hear the sounds as they whisked through her, making sure they made as much sense out loud as they did passing through her. It was joyous, clear, and heady. Maya wrote for hours, taking in the notes to form the basis of several new songs she knew would be sellers. It was only after it got too dark to see the pages anymore that she closed the book and went inside for the day. It soon became a routine to go outside and write in the book in the mornings then come inside in the afternoons to transpose the songs to the computer for print copies. Songs began to pile up and a new portfolio emerged.

As summer broke, Maya decided it was time to put the portfolio out for sale, so the little black notebook was put away back on the music table. The pandemic had changed touring so now Maya toured from home, and her computer, or did local “shows” that were filmed for virtual audiences. It was not the same as playing to a crowd but at least it worked and requests for the songs poured in, more than ever before. She was a unsure as how to handle multiple requests for certain songs, what to do about cross over recording and how to still perform her own music when others were taking to the airwaves making smash hits out of her music. The money came piling in so Maya hired a lawyer to help her untangle things. She had never made so much money! She even had requests to play on stage with some of her favorite artists. And then, the unthinkable, she was nominated for a Grammy Award for best songwriter of the year, for the first song she had written in her little black notebook. Her prize of $20,000.00 gave her the first real vacation she ever had. It was everything she ever wanted but like all musicians, Maya knew audiences would want more so she turned back to her little black notebook to write again.

By now, the little black notebook had been sitting on the music table for almost a year. Maya recalled that there was a lot of room left in it to write so she took her book outside to the fresh spring air and opened it up. It took her a moment to take in what she saw or rather, didn’t see. It was blank. There were no notes, there were no songs. There was nothing. She dropped the book as if she had been stung and stared at it on the ground. How could that be? All those songs, now immortalized by others, now on the internet and in press, all gone. Maya didn’t understand, confused she left the book on the ground and went inside to look at the work to be sure, but it was still there. All of the portfolio, the requests for licenses, the money and the fame. It was all still there. Returning to the yard, she went back out picked up the little black notebook again, it was still blank. She stared at it for a long time thinking. She went through it, page by page. She even tried shaking it, for some reason that even she didn’t understand, but the black book stayed stubbornly blank. She sat down in the spring sunshine and thought about the last year. It had all started by writing in this book, everything she ever wanted had started with this book. She lifted her pen and tried to write in the book again. This time no notes came flying in, no songs plucked from the air filled the pages. There was nothing, only an uneasy feeling. No matter how hard Maya tried, she could not come up with a single note to put to paper, so she closed the little black notebook and took it inside.

It was a long hot summer, and Maya had the worst writers block she had ever experienced. No matter what she tried, the music wouldn’t come. The little black notebook sat on the music table, an eerie presence reminding her of her failure. She opened it a few more times to be sure but it remained resolutely blank and she was unable to find the notes to fill it. It sat where she saw it every day, and in every session of work. It made itself known, and present by the feelings it stirred in her and made it harder for her to even write the simple ad jingles that kept the money coming in. She tried moving it to the kitchen and that helped some, moving it to the car helped even more. The further away the little black notebook was, the better her ability to write became. Finally, she realized she had to get rid of it. There was no other option.

David was looking for a notebook to write his snippets of short stories. He couldn’t believe that the rack only had blank books or music books and thought about skipping it all together but decided that maybe a blank book would do. As he headed to the cashier, he decided that he was just wasting his money, he could continue to write on regular paper for a while until he found what he wanted. He turned to go back to the rack just in time to see a lovely woman, about his age, take a black book from her guitar case and place it back on the rack. She stared at it a long time, and even caressed it, then left. “What a peculiar thing to do” David thought. He went back to return the book he had grabbed and glanced at the black book that the woman had returned. Something about it made him open it up. It was a lined notebook, just what he needed for his stories. How odd that she had returned just the book he was looking for.

On a warm late winter day Maya went out to the yard with some paper scraps and her favorite pen and let the sunshine warm her. As she sat there the notes began to fly and the songs began to sing.