Yes, I did go gallivanting about Las Vegas with Marty—and learned how to play Blackjack. I didn’t play, though. I watched Marty win. Our companions were generous with their blackjack know-how and I think Marty was up $200 at some point, before he lost $60 of it. (Then he stopped. We’re smart!)

And yes, I did come home and get sick with a lovely flu bug (swine flu, anyone?) and a 103 degree fever and become a captive in my own apartment for the last—oy, the last week or so. I’m teetering towards healthy, and I’m still feeling a bit like crap. Ugh.

But yes, I do seem to have survived, albeit by a very slim margin.

Providence!

I also hurt my knee (though strangely, not at CrossFit), breezed through six more Spenser novels, crashed a hard drive, learned to fear data loss (again), and upgraded my office (mmmm, new and/or refurbished Apple hardware). I also discovered how bizarre it is to not want food for a whole week… and mostly not eat it, either. That last one is just crazy, and I’m still coming to terms with it. In fact, I’m still getting used to eating again.

I lost my voice, too, but it’s coming back (slowly). By later next week, I expect I’ll be mostly back to normal. As normal as I’m going to get, having met Las Vegas. Yow!

All this is beside the fact that I talked to BBC Radio Wales on Monday, on the air. You’re laughing, because on Monday I was shivering under three blankets and two hot water bottles, and wouldn’t have been very good company. But Roy Noble, clever soul, pre-recorded us the week before. Not bad, hey?

You can listen to the archived stream here (I’m at 1:04.17) for another 12 hours or so before they take it down. Or, you can listen to my fairly crappy bootleg’d mp3 right here:

Roy Noble Interview, BBC Radio Wales (MP3, October 19 2009)

The lovely folks at BBC Radio Wales promised me a nice CD, and once I get that I’ll put up a more permanent recording for your listening pleasure. It’s just a little fifteen minutes, but it’s my fifteen minutes. ;}

And what else is on the docket? I’d like to get better. Can I be healthy, please? Do you know how sick I am of being a prisoner of my bed, or the couch? Lying down is exhaustingly boring. Blech! Potions? Cordials? Magic powders? Somebody fix me!

Well. Not like THAT.

If you’re looking for the beginning, it’s right here. ;}

Thirty Days and Counting

In August, I scheduled my voice lessons. I learned the songs. I guessed at the Welsh until—glory of glories!—I colluded with the gracious and generous Joan Mandry and my ever-persevering mother to receive an audio cassette of Joan’s amazing Welsh diction by FedEx. (Meuryn’s Min y mor, spoken poetically, is a truly beautiful piece. I highly recommend you listen, if anyone ever offers you an opportunity.) On receiving Joan’s recitations I adjusted my Welsh, practiced when I could fit it in (between paying projects, that is, and trying to nudge my budget to this side and that to accommodate my musical exploits) and periodically requested that Marty drive me to San Antonio for my voice lessons with John and rehearsals with Kim—John’s wife, an incredibly accomplished pianist. In the past I’ve driven to San Antonio myself, but in this case we were doing visits week after week, and I didn’t think I could take the traffic. Good thing, too, because I think I fell asleep on the drive home every time. Thank you, Marty.

At my last in-person rehearsal, Kim prodded me on my memorization and I forced myself to look away from the music. I had roughly 80% of the lyrics memorized by then. My Welsh wasn’t quite there; I kept noticing items that didn’t match Joan’s pronunciation, and I adjusted these as I noticed them.

A week and a half before August end, I went shopping. Vasa and I spent four hours browsing for a concert dress (well, and breaking for sushi)—and with really only twenty minutes before we had to head home, we decided to drop by White House Black Market. We probably wouldn’t find anything, but at least I could see what they had, if anything looked promising. Why not?

I walked in the door, scanned the store for long dresses, and plowed straight through to the back. A woman looked up and asked if she could help me. “Anything long and mostly black in a 12 or 14,” I said, all business. Like lightning she shuffled through a nearby rack and handed me two dresses. Not much of a selection. I took them and scooted back to a changing room.

The first dress I tried on was spectacular, and fit me perfectly.

It was strapless and long, with a gathered fold down the front. I didn’t have a strapless bra to try with it, but I propped myself with my hands to look at everything in the big center mirror. All agreed with my spectacular assessment. But I’d have to buy a bra. “Nordstrom,” the woman told us. I looked at the price tag—$150 marked down to $100. Perfect. “It’s worth it,” I said. “I’ll find a bra.”

Vasa and I skated out of that store in unadulterated glee. Imagine, shopping for four hours and finding the perfect dress in a store I’d previously been sure I couldn’t shop in—size, price!—in the very last twenty minutes!

And we got home on time, too. I still think Vasa is my lucky shopping buddy. Thanks, Vasa. ;}

Music, check. Perfect dress, check. One week before my flight to Pittsburgh, I got sick.

Yep. You heard me.

If you’re looking for the beginning, it’s right here. ;}

And then…

I’ll tell you—this year, I thought competing was going to be an awful idea. I already had so much on my plate that I couldn’t imagine giving a competition the time and preparation it deserved. I didn’t want to do it halfway, especially since I was determined to beat my performance in Swansea the next time I had an opportunity to compete in the National. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.

Of course, this is what we tell ourselves when we put off anything. I am really, really good at it. I’ll tell myself for ages that I’m waiting to do it right, I’m waiting for the resources, I’m waiting for a sign. Sometimes this is true and good—but sometimes, I’m just waiting. Most of the time, I don’t need to wait—and you will find this is true for yourself as well. Most of the time, I already have everything I need. You see, I had already technically “put off” the North American Festival of Wales for two years after finishing the National in 2006—always something, always a little less money than I needed, always distracted by this or that or the other thing. Always waiting for my technique to be better, waiting to be certain I could win. And this year, I had heard rumors that the David G. Morris award might be discontinued after 2009. Did I really want to miss what might be my last opportunity to have the trip largely subsidized by people who loved and supported me, with money I didn’t have to raise from scratch? I had other ideas up my sleeve, but this competition was the thing that made the most sense, and winning it was the only scenario in which I knew I’d be accepted to compete in Wales. If I was going back to the old country anytime soon, I’d better at least give NAFOW another shot.

I sent in my application… and promptly became absolutely swamped with work.

I was terrified. Tim, you can poke me about positive language all you want and it’ll still be true. I was totally terrified. I “knew” I was in over my head (right, whatever), I “knew” this had all been a bad idea, I “knew” I was going to make a fool of myself. (And thanks to Tim, at a certain point I remembered his very helpful advice and started stripping such “certainties” from my repertory once more!) For a month or two, I stuck my head in a hole and did things I knew I did well. I built websites and idea plans and web businesses. I worked up marketing campaigns for Marty. I refined our workflow, our organizational systems, made new-and-improved spreadsheets to track our finances, logged consulting time with wonderful clients, answered questions, solved problems, made friends. Everything was getting better—and more challenging, if that’s possible. Any time I looked up from my keyboard and noticed how close we were getting to September, I felt a little queasy. I’ll never be able to do this, I thought. And I’d go back to work, and feel pretty much fine. BUSY. But fine.

This was not simply a matter of me being unwilling to look my commitment in the eye. This was a matter of just about every moment I had being necessarily focused on paying our rent, our electric, the ISP, and so on and so forth. With no competition looming in my immediate future, my workload and ongoing concentration would likely have been exactly the same. But I was also unwilling to look my commitment in the eye.

Scared people do goofy things, you know?

Fast forward to July, two months till curtain. I now have the music in my hands. I asked my mother to order it, sight unseen, with no sure idea of how well the pieces will go or if the keys will be quite right. David Williams wisely suggested that I might sing the two pieces I would sing (in some alternate universe) at the 2009 National Eisteddfod, where they give you a choice of two pieces, then a second required piece. In this case, the required piece was Min y mor, by Meuryn and Eric Jones. The choice was a hoppin’ Verdi or a glorious Mascagni. I chose the Mascagni because I was pretty sure I could do long lines and howling high notes justice, and the runs in the Verdi would take me ages to pin down (though I hate turning down Verdi). The aria in question was Mascagni’s Voi lo sapete. I made my decision by watching them on YouTube. (Yes. You heard me right. YouTube.)

I should mention, at this point, that without my mother and David Williams to be patient with me and help me fill in the pieces, I probably would never have made it to NAFOW this year. I had my hands so incredibly full keeping all the balls in the air, I would likely not have managed to set aside the resources needed to get this thing rolling. Without David’s suggestions and support, I might never have chosen my pieces—and without my mother’s constant questions and offering of assistance, I might not have gotten the music ordered, or the dress or makeup purchased, or the hotel booked, or the lessons scheduled. It’s because of them I got to Pittsburgh at all. I am appropriately grateful!

So in July, I was traveling. My father had surgery and I hopped a flight to Northeast Ohio to hang out around the house and keep an eye on him. When I returned, my voice teacher—John Van Cura, my wonderful cousin also of Welsh descent—was still out of town for another few days, but my delay in scheduling turned into two weeks as I plowed through paid projects to reach some financial equilibrium—and suddenly it was August.

Thirty Days and Counting

One month to get everything done—that was August.

Okay, now look.

It’s very hard to write stuff like this down. It’s like trying to write down a dream you had three days ago. Once it’s over, you’re in a different dimension—a different mindset, a completely different universe with different physics and laws of nature and so on and so forth. So don’t let the fact that I never wrote a recap for my Orlando win get you down. I’m getting to this one. I’m just… a little bit off kilter. Just, ah, bear with me.

Let’s try to come at this from the beginning.

A Little Context

In 2005, I competed at the North American Festival of Wales in the semi-professional division for their David G. Morris memorial award (no relation). This was in Orlando. I won first place. They handed me a trophy and a check for $3500, and I started filling out forms for the 2006 National Eisteddfod in Swansea, Wales (the competition for which the award money was mandated). That was awesome. I know it’s horrible that I never wrote a recap. Believe me, I am kicking myself now, when I’m trying to gain perspective on this whole thing. You can give me a whack later.

In 2006, I packed my absolute minimum of personal and office stuff into Marty’s Buick (filled the car, completely, to brimming) and we moved to Austin. I think we had $200 to our names. One of the windshield wipers broke. There were monsoons. Angel let us move in with her for eight months. Angel is a DOLL.

In Austin, I found a pianist, filed my applications for entry, and started doing a lot of singing. That fall I hauled something like eighty-seven pieces of luggage across the country, over the Atlantic ocean, through the Dublin airport, into a taxi, onto a ferry, I think there was another plane or three, and a bus, there was a bus, and a train aaaaaaaallll the way down to Swansea, do not critique my recollection of travel options through Britain, it was a solid 36 hours of not being allowed to sleep and it was the most bizarre and wonderful pain I have ever endured in the name of musical-cultural expression. It’s okay that I don’t remember it clearly. End of story.

I checked into the Dragon Hotel (how I finally got there, I’ll never remember) and slept like the dead for about a week. I nursed my travel-inspired sinus infection, and managed to get myself back in working order before the National Eisteddfod got underway. (Point of interest: The Dragon Hotel also did not have working wireless in the rooms, so I spent an alarming amount of time sitting on a couch in the lobby—in my pajamas, because I’m shameless like that—with a laptop. The hotel employees got to recognize me pretty quickly!)

I navigated the amazing and terrifying landscape of the Welsh National Eisteddfod, sang like a loon (well, not exactly like a loon), made it through the preliminaries into the main stage event, talked to people from newspapers and radio shows and television shows, sang on an enormous stage in an enormous pink pavilion, and won second place in the Over 25 Mezzo-Soprano division. Stride la vampa in Welsh, can you imagine that!? (To this day, Marty can sing the first two lines of “Gwridog y fflamau” on cue.) Another competitor was kind enough to translate for me when they announced my name and shook my hand in front of all those people. I grinned and said Thank You and floated home in a haze of shock and delight.

Then I did other things for a few years.

Marty and I moved into an apartment. I blackmailed him into quitting his job. (I KID, I kid.) We continued to build our individual empires from the ground up, learning and relearning just how challenging (and rewarding!) it is to make a living when you don’t have some larger institution promising to take care of you. I launched That Idea Blueprint Girl, and started to get seriously intense about where I was going and what I was doing. We did a lot of stuff. It was interminably cool.

And then…

And then… there was this. The North American Festival of Wales, 2009, in Pittsburgh.

To be continued. (Please don’t hurt me.)