Who I Really Am

I don't know why I do it to myself. Every few months or so, I am compelled to Google the names of singers with whom I went to school -- the ones who have gone on to achieve Great Things. The ones who are singing at the Met, and La Scala, and premiering operas and raising thousands of dollars for our alma mater (not to mention for themselves). One has been compared to Julianne Moore (does she sing?) and another is "well on her way to being one of the great voices of her generation."

Wait! Hear that? That sound -- what could it be? Oh, of course. It's Tierant's teeth gnashing together whilst the foam drips from her mouth.

Silly, isn't it? After all, it's not as if I looked back (much) after my unceremonious dismissal from music school. It's not as if I appeared on stage with these people, and it's not as if I ever heard that I was destined for Great Things myself. I'm not jealous. No, no.

Or maybe just a little...

But not because of them. The truth, as I have come to understand it, is that singing was something I did. Writing is something I am. Does that make sense? I could never stop writing. Even though I know there is very possibly no money in it, that this idea I have may never be a Real Story, and I may never be a Really and Truly Published Author, it doesn't matter. I can't stop telling stories. I'm in love with words. Cut off my hands and I'd learn to write with my toes.

I remember the day I got kicked out of music school. I was upset for a good twenty minutes, but behind it was a feeling of sweet, blessed relief. I didn't have to perform. I was never convinced I was any good anyway. I could do something else -- and it took only seconds for me to navigate to the English Department, where I finally felt at home. I met some good people. We drank wine at the Grown-Up bar and made obscure literary jokes. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. I got taken advantage of. I got taken seriously. And as time went on, I ventured out into the real world, made a whole lot of stupid career choices, healed myself of some very deep wounds and came out with the determination to call myself what I really am:

Writer.

No, you haven't seen any of my books yet, but you will. Google on my name in a couple of years; see what turns up. Maybe I won't be singing Menotti for Menotti himself. Maybe I won't be hailed as a diva. Yes, now I'm green with envy, but it's mainly because these people have always known who they were. They didn't spend years figuring it out.

But do I want what they have? Would I trade who I've become now for who I could have been? The funny thing about it is that the music was the lie. I chose music because I was afraid to do what I really wanted. And when I discovered that I had some talent, I got confused about my path. Took several wrong turns. Ended up here.

I went the roundabout way, but now I'm not scared of the destination. It feels right and good and real. Turns out, I still have a voice.

Different key.