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Music was the one thing I could hold on to when things got crazy. Mom had me when she was just 16, and by the time I was two, she'd left my dad. Then she married my stepfather, a scam artist who kept us moving from town to town and one trailer park to another. He was abusive toward my mother and made her life a living hell. They had a son together, my brother Josh. At least through all the pain of always being the new kid who had to prove herself -- plus watching my mother stay married to the wrong man for 16 years -- Josh and I had each other.We also had Grandma Frances, my mother's mother. She was the rock. She and my grandfather, Vernon, never had much money, and for 45 years my grandmother waitressed. She took pride in toughing things out. Her attitude was "I don't care what life deals me. I'll handle it." I got that thinking from her.
Finally, when I was 15, I made money from singing. The venue was the Hickory Daiquiri Dock Bar and Grill in Collinsville, Illinois, a shotgun bar in a local strip mall. My so-called singing act was to belt out country standards to the backup of music-only tapes on a portable recorder, a kind of do-it-yourself karaoke machine. I sat there wearing a blue evening gown with my hair all curled up and sang for the happy-hour crowd. I was so scared beforehand that I got sick in the ladies' room. But I did it anyway.
I knew I could sing. I got paid for it too. That was a huge step for me.
Many years after that, in John Grady's office at 8 a.m., I also knew I could sing. But I felt a little better this time because I had my manager, Dale, with me. I also had Big Kenny and John Rich playing backup. They were people I loved and trusted, two of the soon-to-be-legendary godfathers of the MuzikMafia, the group of Nashville singer-songwriters I'd found after dropping out of high school and moving to Nashville. Dale said my only job that morning was to sing like it was 11 p.m.
I was in the middle of my second of three songs, a passionate ballad, when I glanced up at John Grady, who was sitting behind his big desk. He didn't appear interested at all. He was going through his desk, looking for something to write with, as if to jot down a grocery list. It was awkward. I tried not to glare at him as if to say, How inconsiderate. I was also trying to sing a tender love song. One of the lyrics went, "I feel like I'm falling apart; holding you holds me together."
About halfway through, I saw Mr. Grady write something down. From where I stood, I could clearly see him write the letter n, followed by the letter o. As in: No.
That's it, I thought. He's passing on me. He folded the paper while I went on with my third and last song.
I was sure the guy hated me and could not wait to get out of there.
As we said good-bye, Grady said, "I want you to have this." He gave me the paper. I didn't understand.
Though my hands were shaking, I found the courage to read the note. It didn't say, "No." It said, "Now."
My dream of becoming a professional musician was starting to come true. I still had to write, sing and record an album, of course.
But I was pumped. The next day, I started writing songs, and over the next three months, I wrote at least 100. Most of them are in a drawer somewhere. But the ones that clicked ended up on my first record.
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