Wasted Heart Read Free

singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and “Hey, Good Lookin” from the church pulpit, because it was my pretend stage while my mama cleaned the church pews every Saturday with the other good Christian women.
    By the time I was eight years old, I was singing specials during Sunday morning services, and even then, people told my Daddy I would be famous one day. I don’t think he ever believed it until the first time he heard me on the radio ten years later.
    Who could have imagined the life I would lead these last several years? Certainly not me, not even in my wildest dreams, but with it, you pay an unimaginably high price. Every day you lose a little of yourself that you started out with. For some, I guess it’s a blessing, a new lease on life of sorts. For others, like myself, I don’t want the old me to ever disappear. My morals, my values, my sanity. It’s a slippery slope that leads straight into shallowness. I’ve watched it happen to others. They get caught up in the lights and the hoopla, and down they go. Not me. Not ever.
    I’m grateful for so many things that music has brought into my life. Loyal fans are what keep me going. People who get me, support me, and understand me. Writing lyrics is the best. Being able to pour my heart and soul onto paper is flipping amazing. It’s saved me from spending butt-loads in therapy, that’s for sure. The one hole in the bucket would be the whole celebrity issue. I adore my privacy. No, I crave it, especially regarding my love-life or the lack thereof. The paparazzi has had a field day at my expense this past year because of my ex-boyfriend. It seems as though he likes detailing our issues in his music. I’ve warned him repeatedly to stop, but the jackass keeps it up.

    In the midst of coming home so I can keep it real, I received a call from my manager that my record label wants me to become a “pop crossover” artist. Me? Uh, hello? What part of “country bumpkin” do they not get? I understand the popularity of it. I’m just honest enough to say that most people listening to pop and rock music are not going to like my voice. I mean, I end up repeating myself, over and over, when I travel above the Mason-Dixon. My Southern drawl turns into a foreign language up there.
    Trina Ray, my music manager, called me yesterday morning to impart the good news. She also said that I have to meet up with some music writer and his team to prepare for my next album. When I told her not just, “no” but, “heck no,” she reminded me that I’m owned and operated by my label. Case closed. They say jump, and I grow frog legs and start hopping all over God’s green earth.
    So with a smile in my voice and not on my face, I told her I would be there first thing tomorrow. Right before she hung up, she did tell me that I would be sharing time with another artist from Los Angeles. Great. I’m sure it’s some beach-bunny west-coaster trying to fake a country accent and sing. All types of music artists are flocking to Nashville for inspiration. There is just something magical in the air there. Something contagious. Every day, new stars are created, and number one hits climb charts in all genres of music.
    Finishing my hair, I start to pretty up my face and polish off with a dab of perfume. Walking into my old room, I grab my suitcase from the closet and begin packing to go “home.” The land I purchased outside Nashville has a small log cabin that sits right next to a tiny stream; however, it’s still a good hour away from the city, and with traffic, possibly more. I’ve decided to take advantage of the apartment Trina mentioned they are providing next to the music studio.
    Taking one last look in the mirror, I take a deep breath and turn to go say goodbye to my dad. I lug my bags down the stairs and sit them on the floor in the foyer. Walking into the kitchen, I notice that he has poured us both a cup of coffee.
    “Time to go I see,” he says, standing against the kitchen