A few summers ago I read Robbie Roberson’s autobiography called, Testimony. In case you don’t know, Robbie Robertson is best known for his work as lead guitarist and songwriter for The Band.
Now, I don’t need to tell you The Band is one of the most influential rock outfits to come out of the 1960’s because, as far as I’m concerned, anybody who is somebody knows who they are. I’d bet that everyone has at least heard their music, even if they don’t know it’s The Band playing it. True fact; three of their most popular songs, “Up On Cripple Creek”, “The Weight”, and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”, have been regularly played on FM radio for a long time. I’m not making that up.
Anyway, by the standard I set in the above paragraph, I was somebody at least as early as high school, when I claimed ownership of one record by The Band (titled, The Band). I knew who they were and liked the music enough to keep the cassette in the glove box of my car so I could pop it in the tape deck when the feeling struck me. But I was not, at the time, an aficionado of The Band.
That changed after I read Testimony. The book allowed me to better relate to Robbie and the other guys in the band as, really, just a bunch of friends trying hard to do something. I ended up downloading their first four albums, including the one that I used to own on cassette. I was surprised by how great those records were all the way through and I recommend you give them all a listen. I pop them on my Bluetooth music maker pretty regularly now.
Not The Band, but just a couple of friends trying hard to make something good.
The other day I was listening to the song “Stagefright”. The lyric in the song goes:
“Your brow is sweating and your mouth gets dry
Fancy people go driftin’ by
Moment of truth is right at hand . . .
See the man with the stage fright”
It’s always been a song I liked, but I never gave the lyrics much thought until that listen, when I realized that the song describes my current emotional state exactly.
The Year We Ruined Our Lives, the travel memoir that I’ve been working on for the last four years (and when I say working on, I mean thinking about all the time but only occasionally actually writing) is written. After 108,612 words, typed across 216 pages, I can finally say, I’m done. And while that is a relief and I’m excited, it’s also scary because it means I’ve got to do something with all that paper.
The safe play would be to put the manuscript in a manila folder, put the folder in a box, and slide the box under the bed. That way no one can tell me that what I’ve done sucks. But since I’ve written so many words (admittedly, some of them probably unnecessary) just putting the whole thing on the shelf doesn’t seem fair. I want someone to read them. So, as the lyric goes, the moment of truth is right at hand.
I’ve never been one to shy away from the spotlight. I don’t seek it out, but when it’s on me, I know what I’ve got to do. I tell myself it’s “one more nightmare that you can stand” (that’s another lyric from “Stagefright”). So I’ve sent The Year We Ruined Our Lives off to be formatted for e-book and print versions (thanks, Mark!), continued working with the artist to finalize the cover and illustrations (thanks, Mila!), let my editor know she’s going to have to give the thing one more read (thanks, Jen!), organized a team of “advance readers” (not “advanced” readers, just people that I think can read) who will help make me a bestselling author (thanks, team!), and began work on the Amazon landing page (thanks, Easter Bunny!), where within the next month, you can buy my book as a stocking stuffer for all of your friends.
And when the man with the stagefright gets to the end of all this and realizes that, who knows, maybe it wasn’t so bad, maybe he’ll want to start all over again. Because that’s what he does in the song.
