I’d been living vicariously through the characters in my head, some darker than the ones I’d dare put on the page. Meanwhile, I was spinning stories about the characters I loved in my own life, until they exited the scene completely.

It was the same story from my time as a clinician: I could give advice but never take it. That pattern repeated when I became a screenwriter: I could craft a hero’s journey for my protagonists, but never live one myself. I was a spectator in my own life, watching the same tired scene play out as I numbed myself with booze, Xanax, and whichever antidepressant (SSRI) that I’d been prescribed that month.

Backstory matters. Mine began in St. Louis, where I was kicked out of MICDS the year after the 1992 merger of Mary Institute and Country Day School. I drifted over to Burroughs, where people just call it “Burroughs,” and learned that sometimes you only figure out who you are when a place tells you you don’t belong. The year after I graduated, I watched my old classmates move on, while I wondered if I would ever catch up. Now, at fifty, I can’t help but ask myself: if your life is your art, how would you live the next act?

I’d had writer’s block for months, in my muddled act of life I’d entered as a Hollywood screenwriter. With studio deadlines looming, but my mind was fixated on unresolved questions from my past life as a clinician: health and happiness go beyond a session on a therapist’s couch or any increase in your prescribed or unprescribed drug or distraction of choice. But what if I could combine my experience editing characters—both in therapy sessions and on the page—to create a new form of entertainment?

That idea wasn’t new to me. Years earlier, I had swapped the therapy couch for a camera. I had met a guy in AA who had once run a recovery center for Hollywood elites. He showed me that storytelling could be as healing as any prescription, if you let the camera witness what the couch could not. That shift planted a seed that never really went away.

I was in my bungalow in Beverly Hills, wasting away late at night on my couch, ignoring a deadline for a script, instead brainstorming what that new form of entertainment might look like.

And then as if on cue, my phone rang. My tortoise shell glasses, the ones that made me look smarter than I felt, fell to the floor. It was a call for help from my childhood friend from St. Louis, Riverfront Tim. He was excited. He had a plan. I never knew whether he was brilliant, or batshit crazy, but it was probably more than a bit of both.

“Save the soul of St Louis? How?” I humored him.

He replied, “We must show the way for St Louis, to…

Belong St Louis, Be Strong St Louis, Reach Far (again) St Louis

Together, United, country, county, and city,

We. Must. Dream. Again.

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St Louis was once a light on a western front, a gateway to The West, an arch that bridged across the Mississippi river of rage that once divided our land, and seeks to divide it again.

Be not the gateway, St Louis. Be The Arch. Be the bridge…

…between a future ruled by technology, and a past ruled by people.

Leaders build bridges. Bridges are strong enough to be walked on.

He opened a book on his shelf, mentioned it was a book from a high school friend of ours from John Burroughs, flipped to the last chapter—Talk SHIFT #22, and began to read the closing lines of the book muttering something about how “writers save the best word for the very, very End…”

It’s not just broken relationships that need bridges. Cities, counties, and countries need them too, St Louis, in a world of Walls, we need Windows, and Bridges. Be The Bridge, St Louis. Again.”

— BelongBeStrongReachFar.com

As Riverfront Tim finished his monologue I’d already opened the Southwest app to find the nearest nonstop flight from LAX.

He was calling with an opportunity to turn my thoughts into action, questions into answers. I decided to embark on a hero’s journey, albeit wearily at first, and investigate an artistic and financial revolution underway in the pages of a manuscript floating around my hometown. Riverfront Tim called it, ‘The Plot to Save the Soul of Business—(with music).’

My time as a screenwriter was helpful in assisting the families of St. Louis in rewriting the stories theyʼd been telling themselves, and their families, for years: The stories that no longer served them. Because life is a social play. And we play many parts for many people. Itʼs important to understand our roles. Donʼt you think?

I soon found my role as lead of the writer’s room for of a film studio in St. Louis that was working alongside the world’s first social TV and radio super-studio. We were all after more genuine moments, less fictional ones. I wanted real connection and not just want to live with the characters in my head.

It turns out, I wasn’t alone.

The Primary Cast

Emerson Spelling

The visionary, volatility, and venture heart behind The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Emerson right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

THE WORLD OF SONGA

Emerson Spelling

“Isn’t the ultimate job of a parent to show the world how to love, and understand, their story—and their children…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Erin Spelling

The quiet force, emotional mirror, and soul of the Spelling family. Learn more about Erin Spelling right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

THE WORLD OF SONGA

Erin Spelling

“The lightest of life’s laughter follows the heaviest of tears…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Dr. Jack Spelling

The editor of emotional arcs. Co-author of messy truths. Rewriting relationships on and off the page. Learn more about Jack right here at The WORLD of SONGA.

The WORLD of SONGA

Dr. Jack Spelling

“What if the life you’ve spent years authoring… isn’t the one you were born to live…

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9 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Dr Wyoming

The architect, director and man behind the curtain at The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Dr Wyoming over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

The Millionaire's Campfire

Dr. Wyoming Schmetterling

‘I went about casting the cast of characters who had the time, talent and treasure to make this massively shared dream a reality…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Sage Storries

The artist, alchemist, and emotional pulse behind the music of The WORLD of SONGA. Learn more about Sage Storries over at The '“Happy” Studio.

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Sage Storries

“If your art was your life, how would you live…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Lewis Blues

The mentor, mythmaker, and backbone of the band. Learn more about Lewis Blues over at The “Happy” Studio.

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Lewis Blews

“We don’t take our art to the world, we create art so spellbinding that the world comes to us…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

The Supporting Cast

May Dove Munnie

The heiress, harmonizer, and first true believer in the Songa vision. Learn more about May Dove over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

The Millionaire's Campfire

May Dove Munnie

“Whatʼs the point of passing wealth to future generations, when we havenʼt healed the wounds we passed down too…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Mohammad Munnie

The manager, husband, and steady hand reshaping what legacy means. Learn more about Mo over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

The Millionaire's Campfire

Mohammad Munnie

“Learning to leave more than money behind…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Forbes Nash

The former master manipulator turned misfit meaning-maker. Learn more about Forbes over at Confessions of an ex-Billionaire (and CMO).

Confessions of an ex-Billionaire (and CMO)

Forbes Nash

“Books are like our Selves. It’s hard for our loved ones to unsee the ugly first drafts.”—ForbesNash.com, recovering #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author…

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10 months ago · Forbes Nash, ex-Billionaire

Cheyenne (“Shy Anne”)

The challenger, catalyst, and unshakable conscience in the room. Learn more about Cheyenne over at The Millionaire’s Campfire.

The Millionaire's Campfire

Cheyenne (”Shy Anne”)

“Art goes where words cannot…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

Brand Storries

The bridge, the buffer, the brother. Learn more about Brand over at The “Happy” Studio.

The “Happy” Studio @ the Home of SONGA.FM

Brand Storries

“Therapeutic entertainment for families brave enough to change: We build culture, not content…

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10 months ago · Jack Ebstein

And then read Songa’s Rules, but know its (F)laws.

THE WORLD OF SONGA

THE RULES OF SONGA

The RULES of SONGA outline the creative behaviors we practice, protect, and pass on once you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA…

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10 months ago · Wyoming

THE WORLD OF SONGA

The f(LAWS) of SONGA

The LAWS of SONGA outline the culture of behaviors we expect, encourage and discourage after you cross the portal into The WORLD of SONGA…

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10 months ago · Wyoming

Still, real estate was like art, at least to me. I’ve always loved people, probably a little too much: I’ve been called a people pleaser, one too many times for it to have been a compliment. But real estate allowed me to get families into happy homes and out of unhappy ones. I just didn’t know my suburban home would be one of those. I’d bent over backwards trying to make it work with my husband, but I was beginning to think that people pleasing tendency of mine might be the issue.

I needed to take a stand and reclaim my story, but I should have known that others would tell it before I had my chance to. Because when I walked into a weekly Scout and Cellar wine club and Bachelorette watch party, I knew my friends had heard about me and Emerson. They went quiet and watched me with pity, as if I was one of the contestants who had received a rose. I felt like a Victim, and any chance of reclaiming my story vanished.

But then, May Dove pulled me to the side and told me about this secret manuscript that was floating around St. Louis that was getting ‘families singing together again.’ I was skeptical. I had no idea what that even meant.

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Emerson and I tried every kind of marriage counseling. Nothing worked. I’d just discovered my family had a trust fund and I knew this divorce was going to get messy.

“A musical?” I asked May. That was her big solution. And how did this ‘family system’ that this secret manifesto was promising to fix, tie into the capitalist system that broke my husband, and our marriage?

But I didn’t care about what the other women there might think in that moment. I was done people pleasing. I figured I’d give it a try and go to the Halloween party at Songa Studios St Louis in Tower Grove. I decided to wear my happy wife costume.

When I got home from the Bachelorette watch party, with my first piece of the secret manuscript in hand, Emerson and the kids were watching TV on their own separate screens in our living room.

We were living under one roof, but we were hardly living.

How was I supposed to know it would be those screens, the very screens that divided us, that would bring us back together again?

In some ways, the story of my life was written the moment I was voted Most Likely to Succeed by our graduating class of ’91. I lived in the shadows of Dad’s expectations—and his buildings. Achieving Dad’s skyscraping standards and protecting that high school moniker were a heavy weight to bear.

Erin and I met in school as overachievers—our pairing only made sense. But our love was more than just common sense and good appearances—for a while, at least. We both stayed close to home and went to Saint Louis University, even though our parents had long since fled our hometown during summers and winters—hers to West Palm Beach, mine to Steamboat Springs. Erin got pregnant soon after graduation, and the pressure to succeed intensified.

I started a real estate marketing agency. When it grew to ten employees, I felt like I had to provide for eleven families now. I poured everything I made into the business—including my Self. At home, I was checked out with Erin and the kids, feeling like my life’s work was at the office. All those late nights. The stress. The loans. I was doing it all for them, wasn’t I?

If I could just land that next big client, it would all be alright.

Entrepreneurship and keeping the dream alive became an addiction.

And then, I found out Erin had a trust fund. I hate to admit it—and would never do so to her—but I was emasculated. She grew her reputation as Huntleigh’s premiere realtor, and the gap between us widened. I ate poorly and never exercised, but compensated for both with nights alone in our den or at the local bar, escaping the pain with each shot of whiskey I took. The kids were set for college, weren’t they? They had their mother’s inheritance. So if I drank my paycheck away, then so be it.

As the business struggled, I did everything to make it—and myself—look like a success: a vacation home, a new car. I went into more debt buying both, but wasn’t any happier on the other side of it. In fact, I was less.

The honor the Class of ’91 gave me wasn’t an honor at all.

It was a curse.

And then, on the same day that I signed an offer from a successful—unlike me—entrepreneur to buy my company, Erin asked for a divorce. I’d gone from a CEO and husband to… nothing. I didn’t know what I was without those two things.

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But appearances dictated that my wife and I maintain our perfect facade while the divorce was finalized. Erin had received an invitation to a mysterious musical experience taking place in the Tower Grove neighborhood.

I’d never been a fan of musicals. But I heard there’d be comedy there too. And I’d always been a fan of deflecting pain through laughter and jokes—now more than ever.

I saw her at the table before we left for the evening. Erin looked stunning, even if she was locked into reading our separation arrangement. I didn’t know until later, it wasn’t her lawyer’s work at all—but that of a collection of authors who’d written the secret manuscript that was circulating around St. Louis.

We took our kids to the event that night—for what I thought was our family’s ending.

But it turned out to be just the beginning.

I threw away my old pair of black shades. After that night—after the music, the laughter, the strange sense of possibility—they didn’t feel like me anymore. I bought a new pair: champagne-colored, lighter in every sense. My daughter said they made me look “less like a boss and more like a bandmate.”

First came my passion for the pen. Then the microphone. Then the mini bass.

My family and I learned how to play again.

And we needed to. Because underneath the surface, things were breaking.

My wife was still considering divorce.

My daughter’s anger hadn’t gone away.

And my son was still suicidal.

I’d become the only one left funding the project. Songa’s lone patron.

I’d chosen to keep it alive for three more months—after failing to convince a single other family to stay. Even my own family hadn’t fully bought in at first. And that was the part that hurt the most.

I wasn’t the plugged-in, twenty-something tech whiz I once was. I was in my fifties now—a father out of the game, unsure if anyone would follow me. Unsure if I was still the kind of man who could lead anything.

But still—I kept showing up.

Because it had started to work.

And if it could work for us—maybe it could work for others too.

My passionate love for my Self became so contagious that my wife fell in love with me again too.

It was only then that I learned what success and wealth really were.