I was recently invited to a book club to discuss my novel, GAGA, even though it was published in 2015. Because this particular book club offered fresh insights regarding my main character’s world, I decided I would write a blog on how the book came to fruition and why it keeps such a tender place in women’s (and men’s) hearts.

Side note: Yes, there is a famous singer named Lady Gaga; no, this book has absolutely nothing to do with her. As a matter of fact, the novel was first begun, including procuring the title, while Lady Gaga was barely out of high school. In case you wondered.

GAGA Summary: When her husband releases her from a stagnant marriage, a freelance writer gets a chance to score the biggest interview of the decade. All she has to do is leave her daughter behind, change her name, dress like a crazed groupie, and for one month follow a comeback rock band as they tour the US.

Genre: Women's fiction, commercial/literary

Core themes: Rock and roll, high school crushes, throwing fears to the wind, and starting over

Time Period: Contemporary

Comparable Book Titles: In Her Shoes by Jennifer Weiner; Tempting Fate by Jane Green; One Day in December by Josie Silver

Comparable Film Titles (for those who compare books to movies, which is fine with me): Music and Lyrics; Almost Famous; Enough Said

The back story:

Waaaaay back in early 1985, (I won't tap my foot while you do the math), I dated a guy who bought and sold venue tickets for a living. Perhaps scalping is a better word, but I digress since this story is not about him. He and I used to take limos to music concerts all over Southern California, where I lived at the time. I was in my early twenties. One of these concerts was Hall and Oates, an incredibly popular guitar duo. (If you have never heard of them, feel free to look them up.) The San Diego Sports Arena was mostly packed during the opening band, since the lead singer was Corey Hart, who’d made a hit record out of the word “sunglasses” and was a hot ticket at the time. He even wore his Ray-bans while he entertained the crowd. As during most concerts, my date and I sat in the front row. I even brought my older sister to this particular concert, as witness to what I am about to share with you.

Corey Hart and his band played a while, and they were quite good. Near the closing of their act, Corey shouted into the mic, “Who wants to come up and sing ‘Sunglasses’ with me?”

Of course the audience went wild. What teenager, twenty-something chick, or cougar wouldn’t want to stand next to this popular hot singer of the day? And to boot, he really did (and still does) have a lovely voice, not to mention he plays a few instruments.

As I mentioned, I was sitting in the front row. Or, I suppose by now we were standing, as concert-goers often do at a concert. In any case, Corey was looking out over the audience, scanning the babes in their tight tops, short skirts, big Aqua-netted hair. And there stood I, dressed in a preppy yellow (ugh, yellow!) sweater I’d owned since junior year of high school, a pair of jeans (probably Levis), and a pair of docksides (popular footwear at the time, even for non-boaters). The height of my hair, on a scale of 1 to 10, was about a 6 that evening. That was me. Middle of the road. Not gorgeous, but young and presentable; not sexy, but bubbly and self-assured. You see, my background is in musical theatre (oh, poor Corey, if he only knew…) and I LOVED being on stage. The bigger the audience, the better. I am still the same way today: a stutterer in front of a small group, a loud theatrical persona in front of thousands. But that didn’t matter at first, because Corey wasn’t looking at me. He didn’t even offer a quick glance my way, down there at his feet, front row, center.

But his bass player did.

The bass player made eye contact, pointed to me, leaned over the end of the stage, and extended his hand. My date pushed me toward him, and I literally crawled up the side and onto the stage with the bass player’s help. (Thank God I wasn’t wearing a mini skirt and heels!) Then Corey saw the plane Jane his bass player had pulled from the ocean of pearls. He looked both surprised and sad. I think he was hoping to bring up a sex kitten from a Cosmo cover, not some preppy girl who looked like she worked in the sweater department at JC Penney.

But I didn’t care. I was onstage!!

The bass player pushed me over to Corey, then Corey shouted something into the microphone, keeping it cool, playing the game. He turned to me, slid off his sunglasses, and positioned them on my narrow face.

“Let’s sing my song together,” he said, or something to that effect. And I should have nodded, or screamed like I’d just won the double whammy on the Price is Right, or fainted. But I did none of those things. Instead, I said, nearly begging, “Oh, please let me do harmony, please…” He looked at me like I was a total goob; an idiot. I’m sure he was wondering why I wasn’t trembling with glee, or giving him shy playful looks. Like maybe if I had done one of those things, I would have been asked to come backstage, share a glass of wine, spend time on the bus... Instead, I explained that I was an alto, that I HAD to harmonize. That I loved singing and he and I would sound great together. And that’s what I did. The song played, Corey sang the melody, I sang the harmony, and the song ended. I thought we sounded pretty good. Heck, maybe he’d ask me to join his entourage, be a female backup singer, or a roadie.

Instead, I was cast aside like the non-fan I appeared to be.

The rest of the story only has to do with me being pushed backstage by the same bass player who'd invited me up, and a security guard who did not believe me when I said I’d just been onstage singing with Corey. Eventually, I was led back to my seat. By then, Corey and his musicians were finished, and Hall and Oates were preparing to play. Regrettably, the sunglasses gifted to me were stolen a few weeks later.

So then. Great story, right? But how does this actually relate to my book, GAGA?

Well, I’ll tell you.

The guy who got me into the concert knew a photographer who had taken a photo of Corey and me together onstage. (In the old days, the only ones allowed into venues with cameras were press people.) My date secretly paid the photographer for a copy of the photo. Then, as a surprise, he had it blown up into an 11x 14 inch poster. For some reason, I mailed the poster to my little sister, and she kept it in pristine condition and a few years later gave it back to me.

While I only dated that particular guy a few more times, and Corey Hart only had a few more hits (he did go on to win numerous music awards and is still famous in many countries), the poster stayed buried in a box and moved with me wherever I went.

Soon after I began writing in the late 90s, I unburied the poster and hung it on my wall, a reminder that throwing our fears to the wind is a much better way to live than treading water in a pool of regret.

GAGA became my third novel, rewritten many times over the years, and published in 2015. It is the sweet yet complex story of a woman who feels her life is stagnant, then realizes the only way to vanquish this tedium is by taking more than one risk; of understanding that we are in charge of what our lives become, and if we wait around for the right moment, if we make excuses for why we don’t do things, the right moment never comes.

You see, the right moment isn’t next year, or next week, or tomorrow. The right moment is now.

It is always now.

GAGA’s protagonist ventures beyond her comfort zone and plunges into a venture of a lifetime, but only because she says yes instead of no. If she’d said no to going undercover as a groupie and following a heartthrob rocker on his comeback tour, there would have been no book. GAGA, like the memorable poster that hangs next to my desk, reminds us that the old adage is true: Life is short.

Trust me on this, especially if you are still young. It seems like only yesterday I was standing on a stage singing a song with a famous rocker. In real years, that was decades ago. And yet every day, as I being my writing, I look at that photo like a talisman, for that critical moment caught in time was a jumping off point for me—a sort of catalyst—though I did not know it until years later.

Have you ever thrown your fears to the wind? Do you have a reminder of some kind—a photo, saying, or personal story of bravery—to lift you up, to keep you going when you want to jump ship? Or perhaps your own jumping off moment?

Look, you don’t have to go onstage with a rock band to prove you are fearless. There are countless ways in which to do this. But do it, in whatever way works for you. Throw it out there. Throw it out there now.

What’s the worst that can happen?