People often complimented Mimi on her willpower. There was evidence. She toured much, driving impossible distances. She practiced every day. She wrote songs even when no one was asking it. She finished records. Organized concerts. Answered emails. Met grant deadlines. Loaded amplifiers into churches, bars and theatres. She kept going.

“I wish I had your discipline,” people told her.

Mimi politely smiled. If only they knew. Inside her own head she regarded herself as a woman entirely lacking willpower. Her proof lived elsewhere. The chocolate bar she hadn’t intended to eat.

The second one.

The nights she promised herself she would sleep, then wandered into the kitchen at three in the morning to negotiate with peanut butter. The mornings she abandoned meditation after ninety seconds. The hours surrendered to anxiety, second-guessing and the peculiar gravity depression exerts on ordinary intentions. The afternoons she postponed difficult phone calls. She judged herself by the places where she felt weak. Others judged her by the places where she appeared strong. Neither picture entirely wrong. Neither complete.

One night, after a show in Squamish, she opened her guitar case in a motel room called The Crash. Her capo fell onto the bed.

“You know,” it said.

Mimi looked around.

“You’ve finally lost it.”

“No,” said the capo. “You’ve merely become tired enough to hear me.”

Mimi shrugged. She’d had stranger conversations.

“I don’t have any willpower,” she said.

The capo laughed, a small metallic click.

“Interesting.”

“It isn’t interesting. It’s depressing.”

“You’ve driven three hundred kilometres today and took a 90 minute ferry.”

“So?”

“You played for two hours.”

“So?”

“You packed the merchandise.”

“So?”

“You loaded the gear.”

“So?”

“You answered emails in the lobby.”

“So?”

“You even practised scales before soundcheck.”

Mimi sighed.

“None of that counts.”

“Why not?”

“Because I ate two Nanaimo bars after the show.”

The capo was silent for a moment. Then it said,

“Fascinating.”

“What is?”

“You’ve invented a legal system where eighty-nine pieces of evidence are dismissed because Exhibit Ninety contains chocolate.”

Mimi stared at the silver capo.

“I lack self-control.”

“No.”

“You possess selective accounting.”

The capo climbed a fret or two.

“I spend my entire existence squeezing six strings into a different relationship.”

“And?”

“You spend your entire existence squeezing every fact until it confirms the worst thing you already believe.”

Mimi stared at the little clamp.

“That’s unfair.”

“So is your bookkeeping.”

Outside, snow drifted past The Crash and it’s view of the Chief. The capo spoke again.

“Tell me something.”

“What?”

“When audiences applaud, do you tell them they’re mistaken?”

“No.”

“When promoters invite you back, do you explain that they’ve misunderstood?”

“No.”

“When another musician asks how you’ve managed to keep touring for thirty years, do you confess you’ve accomplished absolutely nothing?”

Mimi smiled despite herself.

“I guess not.”

“So why are you the only witness whose testimony you never question?”

The room became very quiet. Mimi picked up the capo and clipped it onto the second fret. The guitar instantly became a different instrument without changing its strings. She thought about that. Perhaps people were like guitars. Perhaps the facts never changed nearly as much as the position from which they were interpreted. The capo never spoke again. Didn’t need to. Some instruments make music. Others quietly retune the musician.