Oh No! I'm an '80s Garage Band!
Is it too late for that big break?
You know the story. Band practices in smelly garage. Gets gig at local bar. Fans (mostly family members and high school band friends) cheer. Right person in dark suit and sunglasses wanders in from cocaine-fueled party. Record deal ensues. Band disintegrates because of someone not unlike Yoko Ono. Members are replaced with new, better partners. Dark suit nods. Name in lights.
It’s been one year, two months and seven days since Nouveau Literary published my debut novel, Folio, a story of rivalry between two war photographers. It was a shared effort, working with great partners, from editing to production to marketing. But—in the end—my name is on the “by” line, and I hold the most accountability. A labor of love… of dollars, time, and sweat… that brought me to April 25th, 2025 (publication day).
Every moment since then, I find myself asking that soul-killing question: Do I have a hit album, or not?
This feeling became a lot more intense recently when we finished the audiobook, and I could actually hear my written words spoken aloud. Thanks to Ellis Audiobooks and two fabulous narrators (Paul Maitrejean and Grace Noble), my book is now available on Audible. My own nasal voice is in there too, warbling through the Author Notes at the end.
Feeling like Odysseus, I am torn between looking back at the carnage (aka the ten years it took me to write Folio) and looking forward to the (hopefully) welcoming arms of an ever-expanding audience for my work. After all this time, I’m not sure I even recognize myself when I pass a mirror, so… will they? I am, most certainly, not the same person I was when I started this little garage band. And… is there a gray-suited personage, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses, who will wander past my garage studio (otherwise known as Bobbie’s Reader Circle), and pause to hear the whole song?
Resisting the urge to become a crazed, cocaine-fueled version of myself, I have decided to hold the steering wheel steady, eyes forward. There is always more to write: essays (feel free to subscribe!), poems, and—yes, Virginia—another book. Historical fiction is my chosen genre, and there is research to do. Expert interviews to schedule. Museum visits. Site visits (hint: I plan to go to Rome. Maybe you’d like to come along?)… and, of course, this garage band needs time to just sit and strum, pencils and scrap paper at the ready.
I recently watched a documentary about The Beatles. It focused on their songwriting process, and how they formed a kind of pecking order, with different roles variously played among John, Paul, George and Ringo. What was most interesting was how tenderly they held their chosen instruments during the writing process. Cradling the guitar and the bass. Balancing the drumsticks between fingers. Leaning into the piano keyboard. They barely glanced at each other as the song began to form in the ether around their shaggy heads. The documentary was notable for its depth and duration, for the meandering way it depicted the process.
I have to say, I loved it, and I was strongly reminded of a memory from a very long time ago. When I was about six or seven, my oldest brother Ben was in a band. He is a talented guitarist and mandolin player in his own right, but back then, on a sunny, suburban afternoon around 1967-ish, he was surrounded by three or four other teenage musicians, and they played a free concert in our backyard. Neighbors came out to listen, pressing against the wire-rimmed fence. My brother bore a strong resemblance to John Lennon back then, round glasses and all. In my mind’s eye, thousands of people came to listen, but I’m sure that’s just my memory playing tricks on me. Nonetheless, they got enough attention to make it memorable. A moment, locked in time and space, and it did not matter if there was a dark suit anywhere, did it?
They moved me, and the memory is not only beautiful, it is a small and vital part of who I am, and who I grew up to be.
A creator.
When my turn came to be a young adult, I dated musicians and went to clubs, and those are some of the best memories of my life. Where would we be without those ‘80s garage bands that practiced up and down our streets when we were growing up? Did they need a hit album to make it all worthwhile?
The answer is as clear as a bell that rings from a solitary church across the vast emptiness of a forested mountain range. As resounding as the silence of those first few moments when a great army returns home. As moving as the first time we hear a song that we know will remain in our hearts forever.
Come along with me. And listen.