The Writer's Life: The Writer's Life 1/1

I'm about 20% into the latest proofing of my rock n roll excerpt, Rising Star. I've found four errors. Here’s an excerpt of a moment a lot of people fantasize about:

    The night of their lives finally arrived. Suddenly, after a couple of dress rehearsals, they were in the wings at Madison Square Garden, the buzz of a packed house in the background. Susan was chain-smoking, Goldberg pacing, the band staring vacantly at the floor. The silence backstage was acute, separate from the hubbub of the arena, as if they were different, alien, incompatible worlds.
   "Is this real?" said Mitchell -- "twenty thousand people here to see us?"
   John shook his head. "No, man. Real is layin' bricks or moppin' floors or haulin' mail or drivin' a rig. This's make believe."
   "What's there to be nervous about?" said Richie. "We already won. We're here, ain't we? Let's show the bastids why."
   Susan was not convinced by their bravado and camaraderie, by the boasting of Mike, who seemed as terrified as he'd been the night at the Beacon. Suddenly the band seemed ordinary, and she was sure the crowd would see through the fraud. She was unable to imagine them commanding the large stage, winning over a tough New York City audience. Even John, who'd donned a T-shirt emblazoned with the sponsor's logo, seemed common, despite his physique, which was glowing due to sessions at a tanning salon. She regretted not having insisted they adopt the styles of the genre. Mitchell was dressed like a preppie. Mike, free of drugs, had reverted to the style of the Brooklyn wise guy, jewelry all about him. Richie and Paul, who was wearing a baseball cap to cover his grays, were so casually attired as to be nondescript. None had the same hair style. Only John's was the length of metal musicians. They seemed individuals rather than a group. No wonder Gordon had wanted them to seek new management. Music was not enough to hold the young these days. She feared the sponsor, an electronics manufacturer, would drop them.
   Paul closed his eyes and tried to chase the feeling he was in the wrong place, lost. Suddenly they were told to take the stage. His legs were leaden. He followed the others on instinct, as if he were in the last phase of a long race and near collapse. The others, even Mike, ran out howling like a high school football team bursting from its locker room on game day. The roar of the crowd descended upon them like a strong wind. Paul gazed at the sea of bodies, awed. Arms were waving in the upper reaches, where he was unable to discern a single face. Curiously, those before the stage seemed clearer than ever before -- and all eyes seemed to be on him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, mouth hanging open dumbly. He feared he was going to be sick right there on stage before the full house. He heard John speaking but did not understand a word, as if it were a foreign language. Suddenly they were performing. Somehow he kept pace, even though he would have been hard pressed to name the song. It was as if he'd been hypnotized, without will or personality of his own. And none of the others even noticed his uncharacteristic fog. His lead was being cheered, although it seemed it was being performed by someone else. It was as if he were apart from the scene, observing himself at a speed running slightly slower than life, wherein every movement was painfully evident.
   He made eye contact with Mitchell, who winked, all animosity forgotten in the moment. Mitchell nodded toward Mike, who was flitting about excitedly. "He's gonna be all right," he mouthed.
   Suddenly Paul was free of the spell under which he'd fallen. The faces of those before him blurred. The music and lyrics were familiar. His legs unlocked. The world again was moving at its normal rate of speed. He flushed with shame. Fortunately, he hadn't time to dwell on it. He understood what Mike had experienced at the Beacon. He was glad no one would ever know he'd choked.

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