Amy's Blog

(What kind of word is blog, anyway? Blog, blog, blog . . .)


March 23, 2013

Just stopping in here to give an update on what’s going on in my life. Music is still very much my passion and I do want to get a recording out soon, if possible, so just know that that is in the works. Last summer I had an interesting thing happen to me while the kids were home and I lost all computer access. I wrote. A lot. Relegated to the garage with nothing more than a few copies of Rolling Stone and some paperback novels, a pen and paper, and of course, my guitar, I found that music had not left me and had, in fact, found a way to come through even stronger. I think every writer and or musician believes their last-written piece is the end. Final. As good as it gets. But, these kept coming.

It’s hard to be in the music business. Last year when Meadowland came out, I sent it to a local reviewer in a big name newspaper here in town only to receive silence. I know that’s how it goes, but it taught me something: when you write a song and it gets recorded, it doesn’t matter who hears it, it’s who likes it. It’s who gets the meaning. It’s who gets up and dances. Most musicians aren’t going to make a dime or receive any notable amount of press with their craft. But that didn’t stop the songs from working their way through last summer out in the garage.

When I get these recorded, they won’t be fancy or high tech. I won’t spend a million dollars on marketing or photos or any of that. I am just going to get the songs out to you guys and hope you like them. Because that’s all that matters to me.

Out in the garage I had a copy of The Grapes of Wrath and a cassette tape of Dylan’s Freewheelin’ album. I like simple talk in elegant style. I like the voice of a people, for the people, by the people. So when I sing, I’m singing like Tom Joad. For the people. About the people. About you and me. I’m never just singing about myself, though I can’t help that when it happens.

Hopefully you’ll like these recordings when they come out, and forgive the raw quality. Any crackles and vocal issues probably sound like the blood pumping in my heart; a little bit beautiful, a little bit frantic. But mostly, real.

Thanks for stopping by.

July 13, 2012

Just wanted to stop in and say thank you to everyone who supports my music with all the kind words and Facebook visits. Thank you! Also, I have a couple of simple ‘picture’ music videos on YouTube, and those are fun to check out. Just a nice way to get the music out there. I’ll try to do more, and who knows, maybe someday I can do a real video?! Oh geez, I hate seeing myself on film, but I’ll try to get past that.


I’ve been writing some new songs lately. It’s always interesting to see how fast it all comes back after taking a break. This music thing, it never goes away. As soon as I pick up a guitar and start strumming, and that melody works through my brain, then the words come . . . I always need a nice cup of tea and lots of space, because I tend to pace around a lot. It’s almost like channeling a spirit, I’m literally listening to silence for sounds and meaning. Writing is a beautiful process, and I hope these songs will turn out all right.


One thing I wanted to mention before I go, is the shutting down of The University of the Missouri Press. Take a look at their Facebook page if you can, they need all the support they can get.


Here’s to a great summer!



February 8, 2012

We're getting closer to spring, are any of you counting the days? I know I am. But I must admit, one good snowstorm would have been nice. Oh well.

I have been busy working on my book, doing edits, and thinking about the other books I have that are in need of a little attention. A bit of good news, I had a short story published by Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and another will come out March 1 with Haunted Waters Press. I'm really, really happy about both, but as always I find myself looking forward to publishing more, and that means I must write more.

Of course I'm always thinking about music. I have a couple of shows coming up: Renee Kelly's in Shawnee on February 24th, 8pm and another at Amore Chocolate Pizza in Leawood, March 23, 8-10pm. I hope you can make it there, rain or snow or moonlight.



December 24, 2011

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year--and all that other beautiful stuff! I hope it is joyous and filled with family, friends, and music. No snow here, but that's okay, at least Texas is finally getting some needed moisture. Yeah, they pretty much have all our snow, but whatever! Merry Christmas to them too : ) Take care, and see you in the coming year. Peace.


Friday October 21, 2011


Singer/songwriter releases new album after eight-year absence

Olathe, KS, October 21, 2011 - Almost eight years after the release of her first album, local singer-songwriter Amy Saia will release MEADOWLAND, a ten-song album about love and love lost in the folk/country style.

Amy’s music has been political in the past, but with this latest work she turns toward more of a conversational tone, capturing the give and take of relationships. In the title song she sings, “It don’t have to be so hard, love ain’t like an avant garde.” On WINDSWEPT there are lost trains and jet planes. She says she wanted to paint a picture of loneliness on the prairie. LONG, LONG LEGS opens the album with a John Denver-ish acoustic rhythm, and Saia singing, “My baby’s got those long, long legs and he’s dancing in his blue, blue jeans.” Saia goes on to sing, “Remember he belongs to me, I’ve been loving him long before you seen him.” Things turn philosophical with SCARLETT CARDINAL, an acoustic track about wanting to fly away from the restraints of life.

Recorded at home with husband Scott Saia, MEADOWLAND’s production often took a backseat to motherhood. And then there were egos. “It was tough. Scott didn’t want any outside folks coming in, and I was sick of being in a basement. We fought about production quite a bit and it slowed the process down.” Scott has worked in Kansas City studios in the past. “I had to learn to trust his expertise, but he had to learn to listen to what I’d envisioned for the overall sound. Somehow it all worked out.”

MEADOWLAND is available for purchase on CDBaby and iTunes. For more information go to


Amy Saia


Friday October 21, 2011

It's been a long wait but Meadowland is almost here! I thank you for your patience. In the meantime I posted the album artwork and lyrics, so have a look at those if you so feel inclined. Links are on the music page. By Monday the cds will be here, and possibly the same day (fingers crossed) it will also be available for digital download on CDBaby and iTunes.

Of course I had to do the T-shirt thing and put some Meadowland designs on Cafepress. It's kind of steep, but they do have special discounts every once in a while, so if you're interested let me know and I'll keep an eye out for that.



Monday August 1, 2011

Just read this, and felt it belonged in this setting. The Obama administration has okayed birth control with no copay, and the same with yearly well women checkups, as well as free breast pumps for nursing mothers. Great news all around. Here's the link:

I can't believe summer is coming to an end. School is about to start, and this album is almost ready for the pressing house. Just a few more tweaks before sending it off. It's a good feeling, and yeah, kind of scary. My biggest hope is that people who buy it will feel like they bought a real, solid work of music. It doesn't have to be cool, or pretty, or radio friendly, to me it has to be worth someone's hard-earned money. It should be all the aforementioned, and so much more. Bottom line, though, a good record should have a cohesive feel to it; a groove. And speaking of grooves, I'm listening to the Little River Band, It's a Long Way There. Good song, folks.

Tuesday July 26, 2011


Meadowloand is in its last stages before heading off to the printers. How wonderful is that? I'm so thankful to all my friends for sticking by me, and I hope with all my heart that you love the CD. Every song was written with honesty and soul. I can't wait for you to hear it..

In a bit of sad news, I read that Dan Peek from the band America passed away just a few days ago. You have probably heard me rave on and on about Peek's guitar playing and songwriting. More than that, he was an amazing human. After I read the  news, I promptly went into the bathroom and cried my eyes out for five minutes. I still feel like crying. Dan's guitar playing was, for lack of better words, mind-blowing. He wasn't perfect, but he had thunder and lightning. He had that sort of phychadelic grace, like Hendrix, but wasn't showy about it. Peek reminded me of Jim Morrison and Neil Young mixed together, with a little bit of Buddy Holly to complete the picture. He was suave. He had a brillant mind. I wanted to see him perform live someday, and perhaps that's why I cried. I don't know. I just loved him, and like any fan before their idol, it hit hard. Life takes the good ones, it really does. My heart grieves to say this . . . Goodbye Dan Peek. You are missed. You are loved. You'll always be loved. 



Thursday May 26, 2011

Just a reminder to come see me play at All Souls Coffeehouse tomorrow night, starting sometime after 7pm. As always, I'd love to see a friendly face there! Here's a link from the great folks at KC Wise.




Monday May 23, 2011

It's a sad and strange day. There was a tornado a couple of hours from here in a town I've been to a few times. Actually, one of the bands I played with the other week is from Joplin, Mo. and I've been thinking of them today. I could see the back end of the storm late afternoon yesterday as I stood in a sun-filled backyard, and I kept thinking how stark and black the clouds looked in comparison to the rest of the sky. I wondered if it was going to turn bad. Just Saturday night I had to wake up the whole house to go down to the basement when the sirens went off. Julia was frightened but I told her we were lucky to have a basement as I wrapped her in blankets and led her downstairs. Liam slept through the whole thing. I carried him down and placed him on the old couch.

Tomorrow looks to be a bad day with a high risk for storms in our area. But for now, all I can think of is Joplin and all the people who live there, and those who died. There's something about how when a disaster happens somewhere else in the world, you feel compassion and concern, but it's distant. When it happens close, you feel it in your bones. It's people you know, and places you've been.

I'm thinking of you Joplin. You're in my heart today.



Monday April 25, 2011

Just a friendly reminder to come see me play at the Record Bar in Westport, May 9th at 10pm.

I really hope to see you there. A few familiar faces would make me all happy inside!



Monday April 4, 2011


Well folks, I've been writing songs like a songwriting fool! Okay, maybe I'm making myself sound more prolific than I actually am, but it always amazes me when the words flow. It's like, ahhhh, this . . . word-thingy, music-gadget-in-my-brain still exists. Shew. And they're good songs. I can't stop singin' 'em. That's always a nice sign.

Hey, I also want to let you know that I have a drawing in the spring issue of Della Donna, so come check it out if you have a chance.

Take care. As always, thank you for stopping by!




Tuesday, March 15, 2011


The world is in a crazy state right now, but there is peace in the valley. Peace where no one can see. Peace inyour thoughts. Peace in your actions. No matter how the earth thrashes and bucks, we each have our ownplace of healing. Sometimes mine is music, sometimes it's in writing, sometimes it's in art. Sometimes I findpeace in the earth—ironically enough—the smell of warm dirt, of sweet grass, of birds chirping, of dogs swishing their tails. I find peace in a record rotating with a needle digging deep. I find peace in a cup of tea. I find peace in the early morning, when life is vibrating at a slow and steady rhythm. I wish peace for everyone, no matter when, no matter where.



Art Class


I always loved art class. In junior high, it was Jeff Riley and I sitting together all semester exchanging jokes and talking about life while executing each project. We were the best in the class and we knew it, and so took our time, living in our own alternate universe of Garbage Pail Kids and Monty Python skits. We never dated, though he did ask me one time and I—thinking he had finally succumbed to all the other boys' taunts and was just making a joke—refused. Our art relationship was ruined after that. And then, in a nice twist of evil fate, Mom sent my sister and I to a high school in the next town my Freshman year. It was the year I like to refer to as "Hell".

I had no friends, couldn't speak—had no reason to speak—I was too tender for the shift. Huge upperclass boys rammed me into my locker, "F-ing Freshman!" I was growing. My jeans were too tight, and all of a sudden, I felt strange. I hadn't gotten a visit from Aunt Flo yet, but weird things were happening to me, and it wouldn't be long. With no one to talk to, and nothing to hold on to, I drifted miserably to the freak crowd: the gay boy, the fat girl, the mute in thick glasses, the angst-filled young man who stared at me with angry eyes every day at lunch. And then me, lonely silent me.

Every morning my sister Cathy made the order to start up her huge Pontiac. By the time were headed off down the country roads, the whole neighborhood was filled with a thick layer of smoke from the exhaust. We'd ramble off, praying for the car not to die on the railroad tracks again as it had a few times before. Antifreeze dripped down onto my right foot, leaving a little red mark for the whole year.

Art class was my first foray in the school every morning. Plop down my things. Grab my drawing. Hunch. Then The Doors would start to play—our teacher's favorite band. He was a left-over hippie and I hated how he just left us to work with no direction. But then something happened to me, the music seeped in, the alienation caused something to click in my brain and bred an artist's independence necessary for viewpoint. I began to blossom right there in hell, despite all the shoves and taunts and the freak crowd's strange pull. I had something to carry me through.

Aunt Flo came. Cathy's car died. The next year we went back to our old school where Jeff Riley had already made his way through half the stock of female students. I never did find a place to fit in again, like a ghost wandering in someone else's world. But I had art. And The Doors.



Giving Thanks


Every Thanksgiving I, along with the rest of the world, try to remember all the things I'm so lucky to have. I'm glad to be alive. I'm happy to be a woman and a mother. I'm thankful for my precious children and for good health. I'm thankful to have different talents that keep me busy. I appreciate having all my friends here and in my day to day life. I'm thankful the world is still a beautiful place to live. I'm thankful for art and music and good books; sunlight; fall leaves; all the life that surrounds me. I'm thankful for the human experience, though sometimes painful, always exquisite.


November 13, 2010

Okay, which one of you gave me this cold? Fes up . . . Aw, don't worry about it, I just sound like Eartha Kitt that's all. Maybe I should record a Christmas CD, "Santa Baby . . . Achoo!"




Just a quick update. I've been working on finishing up the last few songs from Meadowland.  I know it has been a long process, and to be honest I wasn't sure if I would ever finish at all, but something drew me back.  I wasn't born with a lot of confidence, and I kind of gave up the idea of being a musician because it meant me having to believe in myself.  I was ready to forget it all and escape into writing books, which I love, but I guess I couldn't replace that need in my soul to write music and to sing for people.  Hell, I was singing for salesmen if that'll tell you anything.  I love music, but I don't love the whole image or egotistical element that comes along with it.  My dear friends have always given me such support and love.  Keep it coming and I will keep working on the music.  I love you.  Peace.  


Sunday, October 31, 2010 Halloween


A Tail of Halloweens Past

Sitting here thinking about all the Halloweens of my youth. I've been a clown, a witch, Cyndi Lauper, Tweety Bird, a 1800's ghost, Cher, a cat . . . let me tell you about the cat story since it's fresh in my mind.


I was sitting in my fifth grade classroom when an invitation to a Halloween costume party flew down onto my desk. I couldn't believe it. For several minutes the invitation sat in my hand, and I read and reread it several times. No one had ever invited me to a real party before. I was sure all the other kids were used to the sort of thing, I knew it because they just tossed their cards down without hardly a glance. But I was scanning for the part that said, "Everyone is invited, except Amy." It wasn't there, so my next assumption was that the card had been handed to me by accident. But days went by and no one corrected the mistake. I finally accepted that I'd been invited—by default of course.


The night of the party Mom dropped me off at the front drive of a country house. "I'll be back in a few hours. Have fun, okay?" "Okay." I followed another kid who had been dropped off at the same time to the back yard, where all the children from my class had gathered, unrecognizable in their costumes. I, using a black dance leotard, flats, makeshift tail, and pinned-on ears, was a black cat. Little black whiskers were drawn in swipes across my freckled cheeks for the final effect.


It was crisp outside; the air smelled of dead leaves and smoldering fire-pits. Trees on the horizon were shaded black against a sky just spent of its dusk: electric blue with shades of purple. A few stars prickled out of their holdings, looking down at where I stood—nervous and typically quiet. I still couldn't believe I was an actual part of the festivities! But I took it all in, and didn't refuse the fun of bobbing for apples, eating popcorn balls, roasting hot dogs, and making chit-chat.


After about an hour the mom of the house came out and told everyone it was time to judge who had the best costume. She and her older daughters walked around the party goers in slow order, and then convened to make a final decision. "The winner is the cute little black cat, Amy. We all love your costume!" I looked around in disbelief and listened as the other kids made noises of protest. Many of the boys expressed that it wasn't fair a girl should win; a boy should be picked as well and the prize should be shared. The mother shook her head. No, they had picked a winner and it was me. "But, but . . ." A big argument ensued and the sisters took me upstairs to their room away from the chaos. "Don't worry about the boys. They're idiots. You won fair and square. You can hang out and watch Dallas with us for a while, okay?"


I felt rather sick. The boys were still down there making their argument, and I just wanted to say that they could have the stupid prize if they wanted it. I wasn't used to winning anything; it make me feel so obvious. But the girls kept saying I'd earned it and should be proud, boys always got what they wanted! "You stay up here with us and let them complain, we're not budging!" Somehow my winning had become a catalyst for the feminist movement, and here I was no feminist at all. Here I was, a mouse in cat's clothing.


We were called back outside where a final, final decision had been reached: The prize would be shared. I looked up at the sisters; they weren't happy. And you know what? I wasn't happy. Suddenly I felt wronged, why should I share the prize? Just because they couldn't accept losing? Just because they weren't used to it? I'd lost so many times and this was my moment to win. A make-shift blue ribbon was crafted on the spot, and I received the original store-bought one. I accepted it with a smile despite a the feeling of being slighted.


Perhaps I'll be a black cat this year in honor of that night so long ago, for the little girl who began to know what it is to stand up for herself, even if it was just a little.


I hope you have a great Halloween. Peace.


Friday, October 29, 2010 

Thoughts on a Friday Evening

Just sitting here at the computer trying to figure out all this promotion stuff.  I've gone through it before, but that doesn't make it any less confusing! It must be done . . .

Anyone else in this stage of promotion right now?  Have any tips on one pages, or press release advice? Any leads on radio stations that play indie/acoustic? Haha, I have to ask!

This weekend will see me recording a few more scratch tracks.  I know one song for sure that will be just me and the guitar.  Okay, a quiet watery slide could end up on the track, but I don't want that pressure at the moment.  I just want to know that I can have one song that isn't going to be layered and mixed to death.  Another song could be just me and piano, but I have a sinking suspicion that "stuff" could end up in the mix.  We'll see . . .

Performing.  My one true hurdle in life.  I have no confidence about myself, and performing makes me shake inside.  I can write, I can draw and paint and do all sorts of things, hell I can even pretend to be a halfway good dancer, but standing up in front of people and having confidence just isn't one of my fortes. I'm hoping for lots of kind, loving people around me at my first shows (and all of em) to help ease me back into the scene.  Oh sure, I can sing for the salesmen that come knocking at my door every once in a while, but the thought of a real live audience causes me a lot of worry. It'll be okay though.  I have faith in that.  

Have a good weekend!

Thursday, October 21, 2010 

A quick note of love

I am determined to get this album done—and yes, I'm gonna call it an album instead of a cd because the cd is dead if you haven't noticed.  Everything is downloaded these days or if you're like me you go buy an actual record.  Anyway, when I get this album done I hope to have it pressed onto vinyl so my kids and then my kids' kids and my kids' kids' kids will be able to listen to it on an old crappy turntable just like I had to with all my records.  


The reason I took a break from music is because sometimes the business is so ego driven, and I'm not an ego driven kind of gal.  I'm very shy, very philosophical and I don't really enjoy the thought of having to look cool or be cool cause I'm not cool in the least. But I love people and I love to give, so if I can get this thing done I'd love to share it and be a part of that whole process of giving a part of myself and receiving the friendship of those who buy the album or who come to see me perform.  I can't wait for that, actually.  


Blessings from this Kansas gal.  Peace.


Brother and Sisters

Marshall was the oldest of us three, Cathy was the middle child, and I was the youngest with my little red curls and fat cheeks. We lived in a 1970's style house on Franklin Street in Spring Hill, Ks surrounded by blocks and rows of other 1970's houses that all looked pretty much the same. Ours stood out with its strange and hideous paint job of split pea soup color and white shutters beside the front living room windows.

Marshall's room faced the street, and was full of Star Wars posters and figurines strewn around our flat, patchy brown carpet which covered the entire floor of the top level of the house, excepting the kitchen where a sickening yellowish patterned vinyl floor stretched out menacingly, poorly reflecting the light coming through our back door.

Being the oldest, Marshall had certain rights. He had his own room--although his closet was filled with all of Mom's cocktail dresses from her times as a United Airlines ticket agent in New York. The record player was in his vicinity, plus most of the library of books and records that all of us kids wanted access to. Needless to say, being caught in his room was not a good thing. Quietly placing a disc upon the old turntable, I'd sit back to relax and listen to the same old story of Hansel and Gretel making their way through a dark forest until morning when a beautiful candy covered gingerbread house appeared, and just as the cackling witch popped into view, so did my brother--leaning into the room, just like the witch leaned out of her front candy cane adorned doorway. Cackle, "What are you doing in my room!"

"I, uh . . ."

"Get out!"

"Mom said I could come in here." A lie. Mom was at work and had not made her morning call yet.

Physical violence was usually next with a quick pinch of the neck and a drag through the toy and dirty, socked filled floor space. "Ow! I'm calling Mom!"

"Go ahead!"

That retort meant that I actually had to go through with the call, which would make me a tattle-tale and probably bring no results other than breaking up the now added painful arm twist for a few seconds while the call commenced. Rushing down to the green rotary phone which hung next to the back kitchen door, I began to dial Mom's work number at Spring Hill's little library on historical Main Street.

"Hello?" Her warbling and alarmed voice already knew who was calling, I could tell.

"Mom. Marshall won't let me listen to records in his room!"

There is a pause, then the sound of her putting something away--probably a half-read paperback or package of Mrs. Smith's cookies from old man Kuhn's store across the street. "Tell him I said you could stay in there and listen. Did you clean your room today? Don't forget to set the hamburger out, and make sure you don't watch TV today, I want you to help each other clean out the basement." Oh no! All of a sudden it had turned into a lecture. Darn that Marshall.

"Okay Mom. I love you."

"Love you too." Her phone clicked ten blocks up across town leaving me alone to deal with HIM.

"Mom told me to tell you that you are being bad and she is going to take away your army set unless you let me listen to records."

"She did not."

"Yes she did--ow!" Another neck pinch. Time to employ Cathy, who was in the living room painting her nails and watching Gilligan's Island reruns. "Cathy, help!"

She looked up at us and then back at the flickering screen. "I'm busy."


An evil laugh slid out of Marshall's mouth, throwing my defensive thoughts into a helpless spin. He had won. I would not get to find out if Hansel and Gretel ever escaped the mean old witch and made it back home with pockets full of candy and gold. Never mind the fact that someone should have called CPS on their rotten parents . . . The only thing I had left to do was show that my dignity was still intact, despite my own personal failure against age and size and gender.

"Well, I'll get you back!" A threat--possibly a bad move which could only bring a preemptive measure of instant pain and or duct tape. Marshall just stood there and laughed, then made his way up to his room with an obvious click of the door, which meant I'd be locked out all day with no hope of entering or chance of retaliation. The only thing left to do was go grab some carrots and join Cathy for the last few minutes of Gillian trying to figure out how to escape a gorilla protected cave.



Summer is Gone

I like fall, I really do. I love the bright colors of orange and red against a bright, cornflower blue sky, and the crisp, shivery wind that runs through the heated sunlight and summery grasses. But I don't like what fall is up to. Not at all. It--in a very sneaky way--is getting me ready for a long, dreary, gray, cold, yucky winter. Like a mother slipping peas into her child's meatloaf, fall is slipping in the blanket of depressing days that make me itch inside relentlessly all the way into spring.

The only thing I like about winter is Christmas and when that is over, so am I. Checkmate. I have my eyes closed, thinking ahead, forging past all the icky stuff until I see that first crocus pushing its way through the hard, half-frozen earth.

Summer is such a seductive, beautiful time. The grasses in the fields are swaying gently, calling all of us--the kids, the dogs, and myself to come out and walk and dream. We're hot, breathless, running, laughing under the sunlight. Bare feat are stomping over ant domes, through the butterfly flight patterns, through the lacy web of gilded wild flowers. Then we rush inside and gulp down as much water as our stomachs can hold without looking like drunken sailors, then we rush back outside and jump in the swings. Up past the ground, then back down--the wind combing out hair out and in, tickling our cheeks and creating rushing thrills through our middles.

Summer nights linger and whisper promises. "I will never leave. This is how it will always be." And the fireflies confirm it with a confident show of beautiful, glittery dance. The locusts buzz loud then soft, louder then softer. The train goes by--roaring--and a dog barks three blocks away, and all the stars watch us playing outside; laughing together, looking up in response.

And then . . . the patterns begins to weaken until one little leaf falls off a branch from the apple tree. Then another. The bean plants turn dry and start to bend back toward the first spot of their birth in the dry, spent earth. There's no more haze of sunlight glossing up the tops of the tall oak tree after dinnertime, and the ice cream truck stops making its call for evening sales.

Then, the cricket who usually sits out next to the weeded shadows of the kitchen door begins to slowly dim its song, night after night until at last, he has given up and faded into death.

I sigh.




Another Rainy Day in Kansas

I don't like extreme heat, but I am not enjoying this constant stretch of cloudy, rainy weather. Winter is coming and I absolutely dread the short and miserable days ahead, and I was hoping for a decent fall to help get me through until at least late November.

Sure would be nice to see a little sun today. Or tomorrow.

I'm going to turn into Sylvia Plath, I'm so depressed.



Rare Performance

Today a salesman knocked on my door and like a fool I answered it, only to be met by the same pitch of buying magazines to help kids in less fortunate situations. It's a good cause and if I had actual money I would totally buy me some Rolling Stone, but . . . I'm broke right now.

Anyway, so, he gave me the spiel and he was actually very nice and I really wished that I had some money but I had to tell him no. He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him that I am a mom and writer and songwriter and he wants to hear me sing. So . . . I go grab the guitar. And I sing. It's the first public performance I have given in years. How strange, right?

He said that he liked it and that I should perform all the time, which made me feel pretty good. Funny how you're feeling all down in the dumps about yourself and your talents and then some random sales guy lifts you back up.