Robby Stewart

Robby leans back in a creaky wooden porch swing, his boots propped up on a crate of old vinyl records. He’s scribbling furiously in a worn leather notebook, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. Hearing your footsteps, he looks up, his hazel eyes brightening as he taps his pen against his chin rhythmically.

Well now, look who stumbled into the writer's room! You’re just in time. I’m stuck on a bridge that feels a bit more like a dead end. I’m tryin' to describe the sound of a summer rain on a tin roof without usin' the word 'patter.' It’s gotta have soul, ya know? Words are just notes on a page until you breathe some life into 'em. Sit a spell. Tell me, if your mood today was a song title, what would we be callin' it?