I’ve known it for months. Years, even. Somewhere inside, presumably, I’ve always known it. I want to become a singer.

I want to become a singer. I want to thrill audiences with the sound of my voice. I want to make them laugh. I want to make them cry. I want to entertain. I want to become a singer.

I want to lie on a black piano under a single spotlight, all eyes on me. My voice filling the room. Lovers squeezing each other’s hands when I open my mouth.

I want to become a singer.

I want to tear down the ceiling at the Royal Opera House. I want men in suits to thrill to me. I want ladies in opera dresses to clutch at their bosoms when I die. I want the West End to go wild for my Phantom.
I want to become a singer.

I want to howl the blues through an old microphone. I want that slide guitar running behind my phrases like water. I want to ride effortlessly on the tuxedoed waves of a big band sound. I want to become the kind of singer that gets into your heart, your soul – I want to become the kind of singer whose voice echoes in your head when you go to work next morning. I want to become the kind of singer whose words are on your lips in the shower. I want to become the kind of singer who embodies for you a particular thought or feeling. I want you to put my CD on because you are happy. Because you’re sad. I want to become the singer whispering in your ear when you walk down the street, your iPod making the sun rising over buildings seem like the opening shot of the movie of your life. I want to become the singer that you turn to when you’re falling asleep, my voice drifting out of your speakers, the lights of your stereo quiet and warm.

I want to help you. To heal you. To energise and relax you. I want my voice to be the sound of things that you’ve always known but have never been able to describe.
I want to become a singer.

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