Death of a saleswoman

It's a week since my Lexus Song Quest audition and I failed to make the next round.

I thought I would take this opportunity to celebrate and reflect on a life of spectacular failures and dead horse flogging.

It's a no from me - our blogger fails to make it to Hollywood.

I had been preparing for the competition for several months but when I arrived
it seemed the piano had landed in Siberia leaving me onstage by myself. I felt so disconnected from my wonderful accompanist that I couldn't find my way through the Berg and the Faure. I found the whole experience very disconcerting after having just made myself at home with the piano to have it taken away at the last minute.

Even St Andrews felt cavernous and unwelcoming with the judges' faces like Easter Island statues when I stepped out to sing.

I'd taken an anti-anxiety pill before the prelims to steady my nerves. What had helped in the weeks preceding the competition today served to make me sluggish and slow and feel like I was singing under water. I don't know what happened here but I definitely wouldn't attempt to sing again on these meds. I felt absolutely drained of energy. I know Stevie Nicks talks about performing on anti-anxiety medication and how it sucks your soul out of you. So yeah, probably not the best move.

I pulled off a respectable Come Scoglio, albeit with less grace than I'd practised and hope for the previous Saturday. No big deal. I missed an entry in the Berg. I don't remember that rest being there. Whoops. Sorry Berg.

The judges seemed a million miles away. Meanwhile, I was spinning on anxiety meds. High notes were clean. Coloratura not too shabby. I sang, got up, and got the heck out of there.

I meant to leave my inhibitions at the door. That had been my purpose the whole time in doing this comp - to leave my brain behind. Somehow, I just couldn't cut it that day. I think my performance probably suffered because I clasped onto technique for dear life.

I've had ants in my pants all week waiting to hear back. Little paroxysms of  fear dialing up my spinal column whenever my phone rang. So I contacted Anna at the competition, and she let me know I hadn't made it. I wanted to hear the news first hand.

I'm so annoyed that I let myself be intimidated, the one shot I had, instead of hustling with all God gave me for one last waltz. I wanted to go out there like a prizefighter, to go down swinging if I had to, howling at the moon - one last hurrah.

So that's me done. I'm 31, and I'm out of the family for good.

Now all that's left is to wait and find out who's going to be the next opera idol.