True Fake

Hoping this cold is not the flu. I’ve often lost my voice before needing it to sing and, right on schedule, I can feel a hoarseness settling in my throat. It’s got to be psychosomatic. Rehearsals begin on the 6th of December. I don’t know why I said I’d do these shows. I get so stressed about performing. We’ll be in Detroit for two days. It’s a busy time for me and I hate to leave Doe, but I committed to it and so one way or another I am going to have to show up. Then we’ll play in NY at Le Poisson Rouge on the 29th. At least Ida will be there for that show. I haven’t seen my old friends in a long time. I love their music.

There is always the hope, when making the plan, that it could be magical, the way playing music can be sometimes. I’ve never played with any of the other musicians, except for Anton. Paul, my rock, will not be on the gig. We’re doing all the songs from my record “Where it Goes.” I’ve been trying to remember how to play them. I didn’t even play guitar on that record. Could be a massive train wreck. Ah well. Just a couple of nights. Nothing to lose, really. How bad could it be? But if I could cancel right now, I would. Hence the laryngitis I think.

I much the prefer the writing life and I’m better suited for it. No stage fright, no performance anxiety. My book is turned in and done. I’ve turned it in at least four times. Each time it’s been returned to me, the last time by the legal department at Harper Collins. I had to change a few minor things that could be construed as fact. My book is fiction. Even the people who seem to be one person are a combination of people. My memory is so bad that there is no way I could reconstruct things as they happened. Still, it was suggested I should change the name of a mountain range, and a famous boxer. No matter what I change, there will be people who think I’ve written a memoir, which is absurd since the story is about a young mother, something I have never been. It seems like fiction is always suspected of being true, while memoirs are accused of being fake.

One more move next month. Hopefully, the last for a while. I’m tired of all the moving. The new place seems peaceful. Hopefully, if all goes well. I’ll be settled in before the end of the year.

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