Silly trigger warning: I’m going to sing now. For a moment or two. Then I’ll stop, I promise.
Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum!
Don’t tell me not to live and sit and putter, life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of butter, don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!
I’d sing that song in my bedroom, over and over again to infinity. I had it down: the timing, the elocution, the patter. I’d dance. My singing? Pretty dreadful, though that hardly mattered. The notes were too high for me to hit, and my lack of musical skill kept me from adjusting my range so I could sing alto next to Barbra’s mezzo-soprano. Her range was 3 octaves. I strained my voice trying to match her. My range was an octave and a half, at best.
But I was ardent and praying for the fulfillment of a dream.
The song is addictive, magnetic, and powerful beyond words. It hits notes that live in my heart, and it thrills me with its passion for life. Layers of determination, a commitment to self-care, to self-love, ripple throughout.
In the show, Funny Girl, the Fanny Brice character was reaching for things that she knew were hers to claim. She was unstoppable, she was grabbing onto life.
When I sang that song, I was reaching for something unnamable. I didn’t know what it was I was reaching for, not yet. Not for years. I didn’t have the specifics, but I knew it was something special. Something buried within me.
What did I bury? My voice. Not my singing voice, that’s a lost cause. When I say, “my voice,” I mean the part of me that wanted to be in the world and speak my truth. The part of me that wanted to stop hiding. To be unafraid to exist in the company of others. To see that the person I was had something of value to offer. I had no problem making conversation. The voice I speak of was the voice of agency, daring, and vulnerability.
I didn’t trust my opinions. In my high school AP English class, we read great novels. Classics. And when it came time to discuss them in class, I was mute. I sat there thinking, “I can’t compete. Everyone is so smart, so insightful. Beth loves Faulkner and Joyce. Faulkner? Joyce? She reads deeply. I don’t read like that. I don’t see symbolism, I don’t understand metaphor.”
I told myself I wasn’t smart enough; I couldn’t measure up. I sat there, feeling small, and tried to avoid being called on. I dropped out of college because I didn’t think I could write a paper. Terrified of failing, I avoided it by opting out. Easy, peasy. Problem solved.
But when I listened to and sang that song, I knew it was about more than a woman going after her guy. I knew it because of the way she belted it out and the way it made me connect to heart-swelling hope, to courage.
“Don’t Rain on My Parade” is a song about survival, it’s a song about going after what you want, and not letting anything get in the way of the dreams you carry. More than anything, it’s a love song. And for me, it’s not a love for Other. It’s a love song that I sing to myself. It’s an encouraging pat on the back, a nod to self-confidence and the admission that I was willing to pursue the dream and thrive in it, even though I didn’t quite have it all figured out.
I was listening to it today as I drove. Driving is the only time I listen to music, and it’s the only time I sing. And like Barbra, I belt it out, too. My rendition’s not very good but it doesn’t matter at all.
When I sing it, I’m declaring myself to the universe. I’m basking in the glow of possibility.
I love to sing, but don’t do it often, and I only seem to sing when I’m in love. At the moment, there’s no romantic interest in my life, and it’s not a goal for me right now. So, why am I singing in my car? I guess I must be in love with my life. And myself?
Even though I didn’t know what I wanted to “be” when I grew up, there was always a dream of becoming a writer underneath it all. The dream was brewing in the ground of my being. It just needed more time to lay down roots and stretch toward the sun.
And this is what happened.
In 2012, I was grieving the loss of my father the year before. I was wobbly, trying to find my way back to myself after a recent depression. I was a bookseller at an indie bookstore in Woodstock, New York. I lived on the periphery of a vibrant writing and storytelling community. I was a fangirl, a follower.
I dipped my toe into a somewhat intimidating writing workshop. Intimidating not because of the teacher, Martha Frankel––well, maybe a bit, she’s a force––but more because I felt out of my element. Like I was in the presence of people who were further along than I. Further along in their lives, their writing, and their relationship to self-esteem and confidence; traits I barely possessed. I was shaky and scared, and though I was trying my hand at writing, I had an awful lot to learn. I felt as insecure as I did in my high school English class.
Martha produced a wonderful annual event, still in its infancy, called the Woodstock Writers Festival (it’s called Woodstock Bookfest, now). I was selling books at the author panels and I was invited to attend the opening event; a storytelling competition. I’d never seen one before. I sat at a table in the café where it was being held. I watched and listened to one person after another get up on a small riser and share a four-minute-long story. I was in awe of these people. Their bravery, their honesty. Even the storytellers that weren’t so talented were courageous. I couldn’t imagine being brave enough to ever do what they were doing on stage. But I loved every minute.
Martha saw me sitting at there at the end of the show, and gently triple-slapped the tabletop to add emphasis to her statement. She said, “next year, you’ll be up there.” She offered me a vibrant smile and nodded, sure of her prediction. I said to myself, “she just wants me to keep paying for classes.” Horrified at the idea of performing, I doubted I’d ever do it. It was too scary and vulnerable. All I could imagine was how exposed I would feel standing alone on stage at the mic, telling the stories of my life.
But as I sat at the table, there was a feeling I buried when Martha forecast my future as a storyteller. Something was sparked; a seed was planted and began to grow. It was a tiny seed, a mustard seed that contained my true essence.
It took me a couple of years to get my courage up. I was working on embracing life and being more fearless. I was taking risks, but slowly, slowly. I became a groupie of the story slam Martha produced and finally put my name in her hat. The first event I appeared in was a fundraiser for our local literacy non-profit. Martha borrowed Abigail Thomas’s exercise of telling a story using only three-word sentences. I was a wreck, but I got up on that stage, and told a story, trembling all the way through. I’d done it, and I was hooked.
By that time, I’d started working for Martha as the web and graphic designer for her festival and I’ve been doing it for the last decade. But my writing? I only wrote when there was a slam to compete in. That was it. 2-3 times a year. 500 words each time. That’s a 1000 words a year. In between, no writing. I popped in and out of some local classes and deflected the positive feedback I received from my teachers. But the desire to share myself through storytelling had taken root. But every time I wrote a piece for a slam, I worried that I’d never have another good idea.
I stayed nervous about getting on stage for years, though I didn’t let it stop me. As time went on, I became more confident in my writing, my timing, and delivery, and more comfortable in my skin.
In March of 2022, I fell in love with a wonderful woman. I spent a lot of time singing in my car, back then. She was a writer with a theory. Her theory? That I was a writer, too, and she encouraged me to get to work. Her exact words after seeing a couple of videos of me performing were, “Nan. You’re a writer. You have to write.” By the end of 2023 we’d started writing together 5 mornings a week, and through a string of events that conspired in my favor, I found myself willing to take a huge step and launched The Next Write Thing in January 2024, with a promise to myself to write and publish a weekly essay. And I have.
As I’ve matured as a storyteller, I’ve won 2nd place twice, and took 3rd once. Haven’t made it to the 1st place prize yet––and it’s okay if I never do––but it doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying.
The other day, I was meeting a writer friend for dinner. In a wonderful mood, I put Funny Girl on as I drove to her house. I sang at the top of my voice. That voice. My singing’s still crappy, but my voice? My voice is clear. No one is raining on my parade.
I know why I’m here.
And because I can’t leave you with tinnitus or nausea from my rendition of the greatest song ever, I give you Ms. Streisand. No one can do it they way she did.
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I’m not really supposed to be saying anything yet, but there’s a big surprise coming.
Stay tuned! I’ll be teasing you for a couple of months…
