Status: In The Process
The Hardest Part Is Letting Go of Your Dreams
She Is Allright But She Can't Come Out Tonight. She Broke Away
When I sung, it was most often by myself, in my room. Even when I practiced with the rotating college students, other than during lessons, I still usually played solo. Unlike Dad’s shows, where enthusiastic fans jumped the stage and then dive-bombed into the crowd, there was always a wall between the audience and me. After a while playing like this got lonely. It also got kind of boring.
So in the spring of eighth grade I decided to quit. I planned to trail off quietly, by cutting back my obsessive practices. I figured that if I laid off gradually, by the time I entered high school in the fall, I could start fresh, no longer be known as “the singer.” Maybe then I’d pick up a
new instrument, guitar or bass, or even drums. Plus, with Mom too busy with Mikey to notice the length of my practices, and Dad swamped with lesson plans and grading papers at his new teaching job, I figured nobody would even realize that I’d stopped playing until it was already a done deal. At least that’s what I told myself. The truth was, I could no sooner quit cold turkey than I could stop breathing.
I might have quit for real, were it not for Lindsey. One afternoon, I invited her to go downtown with me after school.
“ It’s a weekday. Don’t you have practice? ” she asked as she twisted the combination on her locker.
“I can skip it today,” I said, pretending to search for my earth-science book.
“Have the pod people stolen you? First you haven't hummed in foever. And now you’re skipping out on practice. What’s going on? ”
“ I don’t know, ” I said, tapping my fingers against the locker. “ I’m thinking of trying a new instrument. Like drums. Dad’s kit is down in the basement gathering dust. ”
“ Yeah, right. You on drums. That’s rich, ” Lindsey said with a chuckle.
“ I’m serious. ”
Lindsey had looked at me, her mouth agape, like I’d just told her I planned on eating up a platter of slugs for dinner. “ You can’t quit singing, ” she said after a moment of stunned silence.
“ Why not? ”
She looked pained as the tried to explain. “ I don’t know but it just seems like a microphone is part of who you are. I can’t imagine you without that thing between your hands. ”
“ It’s stupid. I can’t even play in the school marching band. I mean, the world is full of singers . It’s a dumb and not original. It’s so dorky. And I want to have more free time, to do fun stuff. "
“ What kind of ‘fun stuff’? ” Lindsey challenged.
“ Um, you know? Shopping. Hanging out with you . . . ”
“ Please, ” Lindsey said. “ You hate to shop. And you hang out with me plenty. But fine, skip practice today. "
She took me around to her house and one thing led into another and I was singing.
Lindsey just smiled at me and I knew form that moment on that I was meant for this section of music.
So in the spring of eighth grade I decided to quit. I planned to trail off quietly, by cutting back my obsessive practices. I figured that if I laid off gradually, by the time I entered high school in the fall, I could start fresh, no longer be known as “the singer.” Maybe then I’d pick up a
new instrument, guitar or bass, or even drums. Plus, with Mom too busy with Mikey to notice the length of my practices, and Dad swamped with lesson plans and grading papers at his new teaching job, I figured nobody would even realize that I’d stopped playing until it was already a done deal. At least that’s what I told myself. The truth was, I could no sooner quit cold turkey than I could stop breathing.
I might have quit for real, were it not for Lindsey. One afternoon, I invited her to go downtown with me after school.
“ It’s a weekday. Don’t you have practice? ” she asked as she twisted the combination on her locker.
“I can skip it today,” I said, pretending to search for my earth-science book.
“Have the pod people stolen you? First you haven't hummed in foever. And now you’re skipping out on practice. What’s going on? ”
“ I don’t know, ” I said, tapping my fingers against the locker. “ I’m thinking of trying a new instrument. Like drums. Dad’s kit is down in the basement gathering dust. ”
“ Yeah, right. You on drums. That’s rich, ” Lindsey said with a chuckle.
“ I’m serious. ”
Lindsey had looked at me, her mouth agape, like I’d just told her I planned on eating up a platter of slugs for dinner. “ You can’t quit singing, ” she said after a moment of stunned silence.
“ Why not? ”
She looked pained as the tried to explain. “ I don’t know but it just seems like a microphone is part of who you are. I can’t imagine you without that thing between your hands. ”
“ It’s stupid. I can’t even play in the school marching band. I mean, the world is full of singers . It’s a dumb and not original. It’s so dorky. And I want to have more free time, to do fun stuff. "
“ What kind of ‘fun stuff’? ” Lindsey challenged.
“ Um, you know? Shopping. Hanging out with you . . . ”
“ Please, ” Lindsey said. “ You hate to shop. And you hang out with me plenty. But fine, skip practice today. "
She took me around to her house and one thing led into another and I was singing.
Lindsey just smiled at me and I knew form that moment on that I was meant for this section of music.
♠ ♠ ♠
do you guys get the story so far?