I confess; a decent bottle of red wine and American Idol are my two can’t live without addictions.  Every January I swear I will not succumb, that I will not dedicate myself to this mindless slice of 21^st century Americana.  And if I do get sucked in—as swearing to things has never been a strong suit of mine—I will not reach for the phone and vote for “my favorite.”  Just for the record, I’d never attempt a similar pledge regarding wine.  Needless to say, I am defeated before we’re down to the top twenty four.  I am there every Tuesday, listening to those who were clearly born to be on stage, talent gushing from them like an open fire hydrant, and those who are less gifted—and we all know what happens to that fire hydrant.   My Dalai Lama-like devotion continues on Wednesday nights, results night, my heart beating in my chest like this actually affects me, like I’m about to be told that one of my kid’s has chosen to jump from an airplane sans parachute. (With my son this is entirely plausible)

            What I’ve noticed, over the years, is that my family and I watch from different points of view.  Perhaps this stems from the fact that my husband and children have perfect pitch.  He snores in tune, and notes have been sent home from school saying: “While we’re awed by Grant’s ability to hum the entire Indiana Jones score, in two-part harmony, other students find it greatly disturbing.”   Tone deaf, I am more drawn to the tinsel-like backdrops that accentuate the singer, costume choice—which often leaves me thinking what they were thinking when they chose it—and charisma.  I’m not sure the best singer ever wins, more like the best package: one part talent, one part tooth glint, and one heaping dose of stage presence.  More than any of this, my point of view comes into play way back in the beginning.  Those first auditions where people who truly believe in their talent march themselves center stage to sing a cappella before the Coke cup bearing gods and us.  I’m not talking about the uber-talentless, contestants who’ve shown up for their fifteen minutes.  I’m referring to the unenlightened souls who not only get to have their dreams smashed into talc, but get to do it on national TV.  Nothing like a reality check in front of thirty million viewers.  I think this bothers me because writers aren’t so different—like any art, it’s subjective.  I listen to a contestant sing and because I’m tone deaf, it sounds okay to me.  Then I look at my husband, who has wrapped our miniature golden doodle around his ears, the pinched shape of his face making him look as if he’s just bit down on a quinine chocolate.  In the meantime, the phone rings.  It’s our daughter at college.  She actually swore off AI after Kelly Clarkson won; she feels no person can compete.  Yet, she’s flipped it on this evening, claiming it was more interesting than the blinking game—at least I think she said blinking—going on in the other room.  She demands my input on the last singer.  “I thought she was good—maybe a little pitchy,” I say, injecting accrued AI knowledge into my vernacular.  “Put Dad on the phone,” she barks.  Together they shred the poor girl into more pieces than Southern pork barbecue.

            Like I said, being a writer isn’t so different.  I couldn’t imagine parading a manuscript out in front of even a pinkie sized portion of that audience.   I get what it is to have something you’ve considered to be the flagpole of who you are shoved under the microscope of the human eye—or ear.  Sometimes it’s not so nice.  On the other hand, if you desire a bigger audience than your showerhead mic… Well, should you find yourself sailing on that ship, it’s a choice you’re going to have to make.  I say I couldn’t imagine it.  But I believe I’ve stepped, willingly, into the literary ring of fire.  Next January those AI contestants will be hitting the airwaves just as BEAUTIFUL DISASTER hits bookstore shelves.  God, I hope I’m not the girl who shows up wearing a sandwich board—and nothing else.