In the 80's I fell asleep on the floor of the Grand Ole Opry. I would never do that again.

by Amy Turn Sharp


I wrote you a song the other night and made plans to leave for Nashville immediately. I could see myself turning words into stomach flips and pits. I wrote it on a receipt from Target. I am such a cliche. Sometimes I am so far from the person that I thought I would be. I stop myself in front of the milk cooler at the grocery store and I laugh out loud. I finger the cool plastic jugs. I am buying milk for all of these children. This is not my beautiful life.

It is only 380 miles to Nashville. A straight shot down like lightening. I would stop in Louisville and say it like the locals do {loouhvul} and order large cups of coffee and bum cigarettes from the big rig drivers. The air would be cool in the evening. We would all lean against scratchy brick walls and pretend to be content. We would suck toothpicks. I don't drive fast at all on the highway which is always something that makes people laugh. I drive like an old lady who fears crashing. I may peel out of parking lot like a sexy beast but I slow down and curl my fingers around the wheel like a vice grip.

In Nashville there are people who make a living telling all the stories that are inside of my head. They just pluck out the scenes of lust and love and ignorant regret and pull them across the guitar strings like feathers. If I ever learned to play guitar I would become a shut in.

My small child talks so much that I want to scream and stomp my feet and tell him to shut up. Just for one hot second. I'd like to know some peace. I have songs to write. Why don't they care about me? I have an old set of hot rollers that would look so good in my hair. If I still had long hair. My kid sucks his fingers rhythmically and I feel it from across the room. I don't drive to Nashville.

I am sure in Nashville there are less worries. People study the Lubbock Sound along side the Old Testament and frosty beers. People have back stage rooms and nobody cares about secrets. There are cowboy boots for miles and the cowhide leather smells so sweet. People turn around on corners and the rhinestones blind you with love.