Well it looks like my comatose song writing career may have felt a slight twinge in its little finger today. Just when I had started to think I couldn't get Velcro to stick, I got an e-mail from my co-writer Ann Wilson-Hardin up in Lipp Loch, Oklahoma.
She said that a publisher had contacted her about getting the rights to one of our songs.
First I had to check the calendar to see if it was April Fool's Day, and it wasn't, so I wrote her back and told her that, while they had already caught the Unabomber, it would be wise to check this guy out to see if he was some wild-eyed maniac living in a super-small cabin up in the mountains.
Another reason I suggested the scrutiny is because, so far, Annie and I have successfully kept our musical talents so well hidden that it would be easier for a publisher to find Jimmy Hoffa.
I think it was Mark Twain who once said, "I wouldn't join a club that would have me as a member." Well, along those same lines, I'm not real sure I want to sign a deal with a publisher who would have me under contract.
Although we've co-written several songs together, Annie and I don't always see eye to eye. Well, let's just say we have our musical differences. Okay, it would be closer to the truth if I said that we get along more like Lenin and McCarthy than the famous Beatles songwriting duo.
When I thought she just might be the Ann Wilson, the lead singer for Heart, I contacted Annie over the Internet. Of course, if I'd been thinking, I would have known that Heart's Ann Wilson would never be caught dead in Oklahoma unless she'd been placed there under the witness protection program.
Because I don't play an instrument, typically Annie writes the melody while I write most of the words. One of these days I'm going to teach myself to play the guitar. My brother Benji has a Masters Degree in classical guitar from SMU; so you'd think I could learn a few chords.
But I'm not totally devoid of musical talent. If I can ever find out where my wife, Elmo, hid my harmonicas, I could still play you a mean version of "Love Me Do."
She started hiding them because every time I played the harmonica, my Sheltie dog Miles (named after the jazz great Miles Davis) would howl then bite me on the ankle.
She said my playing hurt his ears. I thought it was because he a Rolling Stones fan.
It would be easy to quit trying to break into the music business. Very few do and there's a saying in Nashville that you've got to be present to win. Meaning unless you look and sing like Tim McGraw, don't try and mail in your talent. Come here and starve for a while like the rest of us – pay your dues.
That always sounded fair to me, but since I look more like Boxcar Willie these days than Tim McGraw, I think it's better that I stay put and hold on to my day job a while longer.
I heard another story about how tough it is to break into Nashville: a middle-aged man came over to the table where country music super star Vince Gill and a few of his friends were sitting. He inquired of Vince how he could break into the music business.
Vince was cordial with his advice, but after the gentleman walked away, he remarked to his friends, "Don't he know this is a young man's town?"
Not that our age would stop us, I just don't think Annie or I have any plans to move to Nashville.
So I guess me and the Queen of Loch Lipp will just have to keep on mailing them in.
Who knows, one day we might get lucky and this new Unapublisher will make us famous!