He looked down and sighed. I tried to continue. “I don’t know what to do, I—”
I started to cry, feeling like a failure. Maybe I was. I ran. Literally ran out of the studio, taking huge gulps of night air when I got to the sidewalk. After the quiet of the sealed recording studio, New York felt loud. The sound of traffic moving and trucks turning was like the steady crash of waves, sirens here and there. A couple walked toward me and I coughed to put my head down and my hair in my face. I didn’t want to be Jessica Simpson right then. I went to my hotel to hide.
I sat on the bed. I hadn’t shown up in the studio—not for John, but for me. I didn’t know why. I was starting to realize John was someone I could focus my anxiety upon. My pain walking around in skinny pants and a cool scarf. No, I’d let myself and my song down. It could have had a new life, and I let drinking get in the way. I let my fears get in the way. I used my drinking to cover my fears. I realized it in that moment, and I let it pass. Owning my faults is an easy thing for me. Learning from those realizations and breaking the cycle of making the same choices, that’s the work.
John never discussed it. Not once. He broke up with me again soon after. I was twenty-six, the world at my fingertips, and I let the cycle continue through the summer. I took him as my date to the Met Gala, and then he broke up with me. At the Cannes film festival in May, I promoted my upcoming military comedy, then called Major Movie Star, but eventually released as Private Valentine. It was a princess moment, and maybe he saw the pictures of me at Cannes, because suddenly he was in love with me again. In Miami, I got to sit next to my mom as we showed at our first Mercedes Benz fashion week. I lost track of if we were back on or not then. Of even if we were ever really on at that point. I was having these incredible experiences, and I allowed him to steal my joy.
At the beginning of the fall, I was alone again. This time I was off the John merry-go-round long enough to catch my breath and stop being the ideal woman he had in his mind. I had room again to have a conversation with myself. You’re the only one who has the power to be the best you, I thought. Nobody else can do that for you.
You may have had that lonely conversation with yourself by now, but if you haven’t, let me tell you. You can have people encourage you and talk to you all day long about your potential, but if you’re not there, ready and willing to be that for yourself, you’ll never be fulfilled. For me, I wouldn’t know myself until I faced my fear of singing again. I had to walk through that fear. I needed to write again, get back in the studio, do what I loved. My first call was to my manager—my dad—and the next was to the friend I knew I couldn’t do without.
CaCee picked up on the third ring, sounding concerned. I didn’t blame her. She was now doing A&R at Sony, fulfilling the dream she started with in Teresa’s office. I told her my plan before I lost my nerve. “So, will you do A&R on the record?” That was the Artists and Repertoire creative work of helping choose songs, just as her old boss Teresa had done for me in the beginning.
She was quiet on the other end, and finally said, “I don’t know, Jess.”
“What don’t you know?”
“If it doesn’t go well, you’ll blame me,” CaCee said.
“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna go well,” I joked, “so let’s just do it. At least I’ll have my best friend.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I love you,” I said. I hung up, thrilled.
Now I had to do it.
19
Return of the Southern Girl
Winter 2007
We drove through a nondescript neighborhood of Nashville, convinced we had our directions wrong. But we kept going, making one turn, then another until we got to the address. Finally, we arrived at a corner lot surrounded by politely low stucco walls.
CaCee pressed the button at a low-key gate. A pleasant voice answered.
“Good morning,” CaCee said. “We have an appointment with Dolly.”
The doors opened, and once we saw the building it all made sense. There was a beautiful stucco-and-timber compound with red tiles, and at its center, there was a mission-style chapel right out of an Old West movie. It even had a little dome with a bell inside and a cross on top. This, of course, was Dolly Parton’s office and rehearsal studio.
Dolly and her kindness were the inspiration for me to come to Nashville to do a country album. As soon as CaCee, my assistant Adrienne, and I got settled in our rental house, one of CaCee’s first suggestions was that I call Dolly about the possibility of working together. I was afraid to call the number Dolly gave me after the Kennedy Center, so I made CaCee call Dolly’s manager, Danny Nozell, who was so lovely to her. Dolly called me right away and told me to come on in. She did her business work between four a.m. and ten a.m. At seven o’clock, we were her second meeting of the day.
“Jess, are you shaking?” CaCee asked me.
“I’m just nervous is all,” I said.
As soon as we walked in, there she was yelling, “Hey!” She hugged me like we were reuniting after a long absence. There are people who embrace themselves so fully and live so authentically that you feel like you grew up with them. That’s Dolly.
She immediately started showing us around, and the first stop was the chapel, a tiny little candlelit place that reminds you of those rooms tucked away in hospitals for prayer or quiet reflection. A place where anybody can come and feel at home, no matter what you believe in. She lit a candle for us, and we all prayed together. Dolly put me at such ease.
From there she took my hand to lead me to her office. She sat behind a desk and CaCee and I sat on pretty chairs. She put her hands together and looked at us. This was Dolly the businesswoman. My heart swelled, and I thought, This is how you build a career like hers.
I talked about my goals for the album, and she nodded. How I wanted to get back to singing from the heart, not to sing to sell records but to make people feel. I was aware that I was a pop star coming to the country world, and I wanted to be respectful of that. I said that it would be an honor to write with her.
“Yeah, I’d love to,” she said, “but I’d like to send you some songs, too, that I think you might like.”
“Please!” I said. “That would be amazing.” I couldn’t imagine being so talented that you had good songs that you hadn’t gotten around to recording yet. But this was the woman who wrote “Jolene” and “I Will Always Love You” on the very same day, so it made sense. We went into her rehearsal space, and she played us songs to get a feel for what I could do. CaCee and I sat on a beat-up leather couch, luxuriating in her voice as she worked to get the songs right. When it was over, she gave me a bunch of demos to bring home. And a big hug to keep with me.
“I’m glad you’re doing this,” she said. “You are just so sweet and precious.”
I put my hand on my heart and teared up. When the door closed behind us, CaCee and I looked at each other like we’d seen heaven. We were still shaking our heads when we got in the car.
“It is so powerful for your idols to actually be who you thought they were,” I said. “I can’t believe she even met with me.”
“Of course she did, Jess,” CaCee said. “She loves you. People like Dolly Parton or Willie Nelson, they don’t need a single thing from you. They’re nice to you because they want to be.”