Diary of a Girl-Next-Door Heavy Metal Novelist

Are you...

...heading to the NY KISS Expo on May 1?

AND

...interested in a free KISSfiction T-shirt

AND

...willing to wear said shirt while not talking smack about me?

CLICK HERE to learn more about how the free shirt giveaway works.

Expo details available at www.starzcentral.com/kissexpo

April 1, 2004
If I haven't exactly been keeping up with book work this week, I am spreading the KISSfiction word at my higher ed. conference. One fellow this afternoon swore to me that he'd heard about my story. He's from Chicago, where I'll be sure to take the Book Star Kick Ass Won't Get Fooled Again Winnebago Tour. My fortune cookie at dinner said "You will be awarded some great honor." I'm pretty sure it won't be a Pulitzer. But you never know.

The NY/NJ KISS Expo is only a month away. Maybe they'll give me a stripe or something to show I'm an officer in the KISS Army. That's a freakin' honor, Pulitzer people.

April 2, 2004
It's not even 9:30 p.m. yet and I'm about to drop. Who knew higher ed. people were so exhausting? Today's work was easy, but the pace was not. I've been remarkably fresh for the daily 7 a.m. meetings, but by 7 p.m., I'm pooped.

That's boring. Here's a riddle my students told me last week: What kind of bee gives milk? (Answer later)

Tomorrow night, I have to drive back to Lancaster for a percussion performance. It's an awesome repertoire and (bonus!) my dad is coming. For the pervs, I'll be wearing a strapless black dress and I have a long interlude in which I have to clap with my hands held above my head. I suppose there is a slight chance I'll have a wardrobe malfunction a la Janet Jackson and you'll see my ____________ bees. (That's a hint to the riddle's answer.) Hope to see you at the show!

April 4, 2004
It's pretty f-ing cool when one of your colleagues who is attending the same national higher education conference you are calls to say this:

Colleague: You know the woman you admire most in higher education?
Me: Yes.
Colleague: I just attended a session she did and she said your name out loud.
Me: What???
Colleague: She brought sample articles from the publication that printed your piece last year to show the audience what good work looked like.
Me: That was my dream publication.
Colleague: The presenters said that yours was a good example because it required very little editing.

Carlos emailed me this afternoon to clue me in that he'd read my blather. I just have to blush and hope my shtick was taken as a compliment. Of course, there is the always-present fear that my boss will someday log on and read things like my April 2 entry above. If you read it carefully, you'll see that I never actually use the word "b____bies." God forbid the Dean-next-door should mention her you know whats...

My biggest concern while travelling to the concert was that my strapless dress would slip down during my big stomp/clap tango routine. Okay, I'm a little self-focused, but I know when to let it go. When it turns out that your beloved conductor's father died less than two hours after the dress rehearsal and he's decided to dedicate the performance to his pop, it's time to start worrying about the fact that you haven't been to practice in over three weeks. I wore my special tango dress for the gig but now it seemed a little inappropriate - particularly if I wasn't 100% confident in the lycra.

In rock & roll, the phrase coined for going full-throttle in a performance is "balls out." I'm a feminist, but I wasn't particularly interested in feminizing or literalizing that concept in front of the audience that included my father, wife and a berieved family.

The lights went down and the drumsticks came out. The first number (the easiest) went fine. Next up: "Vientos y Tangoes." Bring it the F on! I wailed on the snare, flung my head around like Sheila E. on the timbales, and I stomped my aching feet as hard as I could during the showstopper. Only when the song ended did I break my gaze with the conductor to peek down at my dress. I was balls out but not b_____s out. We moved immediately to another high-tempo song in which I play tambourine. At this point, I was confident in the dress, but not so much in my talent. There must be 800 repeats in that damn song, and by the third one, I had no idea where the rest of the ensemble was, but I kept playing and playing; praying and praying. Sometimes when I watch a really great rock performance, I feel like the room disappears except for a tunnel of light between the frontman and me. That's the magic I felt. Something special held us together as an ensemble that night despite our fear and overwhelming desire to make our director proud. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was his father. Maybe it was Aunt Bet's shoes. It didn't matter. Everyone nailed or miraculously faked their solos; hit their cues and brought down the house.

Saturday night was a celebration on the grandest scale. You'd be a complete boob to think otherwise. (continue)