When my voice teacher Whitney Nichole asked me to make a list of songs I was sure I could never sing, I gave her a list of raw blues vocals by Beth Hart and Ettta James and soul anthems by the great master Aretha Franklin – songs I knew I couldn’t access with my classically trained voice. Whitney’s immediate response was, “OK, choose one and let’s sing it.” Damn it. I walked right into that one. 

“Wha??,” I said, stuttering. My whole spine, every organ in my body and even the hairs on my head were all screaming NO!

Ten years ago, when I was 45, I spent $40,000 in six months, and not to buy a car. I spent it on Italian clothes – Missoni, Etro, a sublime Dolce & Gabbana leopard pencil skirt. I acquired delicate Louboutins, dominatrix-y Viviers, swoon-worthy perfumes. My long, luxurious hair got highlighted and blown out regularly.

“The last forty pages are the best part of the book.”

“The last third of the book should be cut. The best part of your story is your fiancé’s death. Not sure why the rest is there.”

“There is too much about how you feel. It’s too interior. We need more scenes.”