The State of My Voice

This year I managed to post one blog piece, kicking off 2022. The rest of the year slid past me, though that doesn’t mean I wasn’t using my voice. I was busy with agent queries, a bit of poetry writing, and revisions on my set of linked short stories. Yet none of these endeavors insisted on a blog post. I’m remembering how I started this blog in 2012 to explore the idea of voice and vocal problems. In an attempt to round out not only the past year, but also the last decade, I will offer an update on the state of my voice.

I hit a milestone when Finishing Line Press accepted my novella, Off the Wall, last September. While I’ve had a few short stories published, Off the Wall will be my first full-length paperback (if you discount my self-published collection of poetry). The novella stars Sadie Taube, the daughter of a deceased heroin addict. She’s living on Bainbridge Island, Washington, with her aunt and uncle in their big ass house. While they treat her all right, she’s not exactly their daughter. She’s been working in a diner and saving every penny. The restaurant is warm and friendly, decorated with the dollar bills customers have left behind. When Sadie turns 18, her boss Bev asks her to stay after work so they can celebrate. Bev doesn’t know she has a plan brewing, one focused on the Coast Starlight. Sadie is gonna get on that train and head to California. Yet during this last hurrah she finds reason to track down a little extra money (when Bev isn’t looking). Off the Wall is due out next fall.

What I like about poetry writing is the way commercial aspects do not play into the publishing process all that much. I can tinker with work and get it out there. But I can’t expect a lot of recompense. So I don’t. Writing poetry allows me to experience the joy of writing without feeling pressures focused on agents and editors, or the tough publishing market. Feeling that joy has its own reward. Once a poem is out in the world, it claims its own destiny. It can live or die, as necessary. 

And yes, I’m still singing. During the first year of the pandemic, I connected with a voice teacher on the Oregon Coast who was willing to work with me either on her porch (as she guided and accompanied me through the window), as well as via FaceTime (during times when I was working as a librarian in California). My teacher uses the Joseph Klein technique, which initially felt like a dubious challenge as it differed from anything I’d done before. Yet this approach has helped me fix a number of problems. For example, evening my upper register with my lower register has been a major snafu for me since day one. We are now in our third year together, and I continue to be amazed at my teacher’s ability to push me to the next step. This fall she assigned “O cessate di piagarmi” by Alessandro Scarlatti, as well as “Nel cor più non mi sento” by Giovanni Paisiello. As I live in Davis, California, when school is in session, I’ve been trying to do my best with these pieces through FaceTime. I’m looking forward to my next in-person session with her so that she can truly assess my progress.

Finally, I haven’t stopped exercising my library voice, and I’m not talking about shushing people when I’m sitting on the reference desk. Community college librarians have been charged with the task of helping people work through the maze of misinformation, disinformation, and fake news. It takes work to develop the sort of critical thinking necessary to pinpoint quality sources. I stand ready to cheer on any student willing to deepen their information literacy skills. As an FYI, I will be teaching Library Research and Information Literacy online through Sacramento City College this spring (March 20 to May 12).

Happy New Year!

How Breast Cancer May Derail the Voice Break Epilogue

In the spirit of lifelong learning—in the spirit of chasing a 10K as an aging adult—I began to work on my singing at the age of 46. I studied it fairly consistently until I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I am now 54. My reasons for getting started are chronicled in a long poem, Voice Break, which is mainly about the foibles of an adult new musician (and a little bit about learning to write poetry).

Voice Break covers the first two years of my voice lessons. By the end of the poem, the singer—moi—has just completed a semester of singing with the Cuyamaca College Choir (in El Cajon, California). I continued to sing with them for another semester and then moved to their sister college to work with the Grossmont Master Chorale. I now have more than 8 semesters of college choir behind me. During those years, I also studied singing with a voice teacher, Esther Jordan.

I am not writing this piece to make any claims about my voice—though my singing has improved. I’m revisiting this thread of my life because cancer treatment may drastically change the quality of my sound. As I move from the chemotherapy unit to radiation oncology, I find myself wondering if I should continue singing when and if my life returns to normal.

Singing did help me feel better during the first two months of this ordeal. I practiced when I could, though not every day. I knew it was time to stop when I began chemotherapy. This was mainly because my medical oncologist put me on steroids in an attempt to ward off an allergic reaction to the infusions. I was pretty certain the steroids would wreak havoc on my vocal cords, and I did get some validation on this hunch. Around the time I was taking the steroids, I was told my speaking voice sounded different.

In addition, my medical oncologist warned me the Taxotere/Cytoxan infusions I ultimately faced would probably force me into menopause. She turned out to be spot on. The chemicals quickly shut off my reproductive system, as if to close that valve with one big yank. Though this was a side effect of the chemo, it was an outcome my doctors wanted. Overexposure to estrogen is the likely reason for my breast cancer. If my reproductive cycle starts up again, my oncologist plans to shut down my ovaries with a monthly shot. Granted, I would have dealt with menopause if I hadn’t gotten breast cancer. I’ve just been thrust into the change rather abruptly. I don’t know how this shift in hormone levels will affect my singing.

So now I beginning six weeks of radiation. Fortunately, I won’t be taking any more drugs for a while. However, they are radiating the lymph nodes above and around my clavicle, along with the incision sites. I did wonder if this would harm my voice box as my lungs are at risk for minor damage. My radiation oncologist has reassured me my vocal cords should not be harmed by the radiation treatments.

There’s more. Once I am completely finished with the three big cancer treatments – surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation – it is likely I will need to take Arimidex for five years to ward off breast cancer recurrence. This may be the most important leg of my treatment, according to my medical oncologist. The cancer came on pretty fast. I did ask her if Arimidex affected the singing voice in any way, and she said she’d never heard anyone complain about this.

I recently added some light singing practice sessions to my routine. As a cancer patient, I’ve learned to engage in anything that makes my daily existence seem normal—it’s easy to feel as if one has dropped out of life during the treatment process. Singing practice does evoke memories of a healthier being. It is also a joyful act, which can only bring on unseen benefits. So far, my voice doesn’t seem overly different, though I haven’t yet tried to record it to find out if my sound has changed.




Facing the Singing-Acting-Dancing Monkey

Years ago book critic Michael Upchurch told me how it was virtually impossible to keep up with all of the noteworthy books being published, because, as he put it, “we are living through a renaissance.” I immediately wondered which titles would still be around some five hundred years from now, when our renaissance is being taught to undergraduates.

Creative America does appear to be alive and well. The myriad workshops available to writers, actors, musicians, not to mention various blends of these categories, is noticeably lush. I recently took a workshop with Ann Randolph involving both writing and improvisation (in an earlier post I mistakenly called it a performance poetry workshop).

Ann Randolph is a self-starter who has produced, performed in, and written her own one-woman shows. I was privileged to see her multifaceted production of Loveland at Rhythmix Cultural Works in Alameda, California, the night before our workshop began. Her portrayal of Frannie Potts—who is trying to come to terms with the life and death of her mother—is funny, painful, bold, and skillfully executed. By the way, Randolph also plays Frannie’s mother, as well as the other characters in Frannie’s life, and quite a cast it is. She flips between these characters with remarkable speed and somehow manages to be “in character,” no matter which character it is.

While Randolph exudes the sort of talent that could make the aspiring writer and/or performer want to curl into fetal position, she checks it at the door and moves into an unassuming stance before she guides other artists. She’s actually gotten into the habit of teaching a writing workshop to audience members right after her 90-minute show, which must feel like a marathon.

During our two-day Write Your Life workshop, which was offered through 27 Powers (, I zipped through all of the writing exercises without batting an eye. The improvisation activities were another matter. Not only did some negative feelings surface around the use of role-playing in the workplace (former staff development workshops), a much younger artist immediately began to kick and scream. I pretty much bowled my way though each exercise with resistance set on high. By the end of the first day I had “been there done that.” If I hadn’t been participating with a friend, I might have passed on day two.

But that’s when everything gelled.

Voice Break describes how I began singing in my twenties, only to hit a wall. During those days I also studied acting and dance. While I did receive the most encouraging feedback on my singing, I had some vague dream about how I might do it all. In the end, I threw in the towel on the performing arts world altogether and began to fulfill my true dream, which was to become a writer (like so many other people in this literary renaissance). I dismissed those performing arts classes as a phase, as therapy, as the sort of activity I needed to delve into in order to find myself.

During the workshop, I turned out pieces centered on how I’d written these explorations off. My subject matter was clearly driven by the improvisation exercises, which I was not expecting to face. I found myself writing about all of those feelings of failure that once arose in me when I didn’t hit the mark. I wrote about the awkward instrument I used to work with, the frozen body that wouldn’t move the way I wanted, wouldn’t allow my true voice to come through.

Micro-movements are the building blocks of character—the little nuances, the fears we express in nervous laughter. They are hard to discover when you can’t find your body, when you shoulders are up in your ears and you can’t feel your breath, when you feel pressured to be clever, look funny, and come up with that brilliant flick of the hand in time with the killer line you have just made up.

I’d thought I’d come to terms with this period, especially as I watched my confidence as a writer slowly begin to grow. In those early years of my writing life, I’d been particularly taken by Natalie Goldberg’s discussion of the monkey mind, the critical inner monologue that runs as the artist tries to work. I finally had an effective way of defining this creature and nailing her down. I learned how to get out of my own way and write.

Yet as I stood before a fellow player on the stage—as I stood before the rest of the retreatants in the workshop trying to be good—it was clear a different monkey had never completely left me. There she was chattering away, reminding me of how I’d blown it.

This surprised me. Like I noted, I’d written off my involvement in the performing arts as a learning experience, which remains a fair assessment. So I hadn’t expected this material to be so fierce. I hadn’t expected the feelings to be so immediate. As a writer, I rarely beat up on myself anymore. I just try to see what works and what doesn’t. Yet as a performer, I was quick to dive right back into the sort of habitual thinking that can only sabotage one’s work.

In the end, I was forced to consider how I’d ignored the aspiration that once motivated me to try to perform in the first place. As the pile of pieces centered on this era of my life grew, I found myself facing what I had so firmly squelched—the fact that my desire to perform had been real, not just a therapy exercise.

Yet if we are currently living through a literary renaissance, we are truly experiencing a performing arts renaissance. It’s daunting to get up on the stage in the midst of all of that talent. Besides, I expect I only want to make peace with singing-acting-dancing monkey. While I do sing in a choir these days, writing is surely enough creative activity for one voice.