Tag: author

Author life, Non Mom Life

Springsteen tickets go on sale today. And for the first time, I may not go.

Sara Confino

Springsteen tickets go on sale today for DC. And for the first time since 2003, I don’t know what I’m going to do about that.

Normally, I’d be preparing ahead of time. Rebooting my computer, a chromebook, my phone, and getting my husband to do the same with his devices. Historically, I’ve done better in the app than on the computer, but it’s best to be ready for anything. Make sure my credit cards are updated in my Ticketmaster account. Coordinate which shows my parents want and get some friends to help as well.

But today, I don’t know that I’m buying tickets. Not with the price hike.

I set a limit for Springsteen on Broadway, which my husband promptly ignored and bought us better seats for more than I was comfortable spending. And while I was happy to go, we had a conversation about listening to what I say after that, because we went way beyond the price point that I was comfortable at.

July 7, 2021

In previous years, GA tickets (for which you would enter a lottery system to wind up down front), cost about $100. That went up to $150 in 2016. And with Ticketmaster fees added in and a second ticket for my husband, that meant we were looking at around $450 for a show. At that rate, I wasn’t doing what I did when I was single in 2012 and going to four shows in the same week.

Now, a single GA ticket is $450. After Ticketmaster fees, that’s probably $600. Add in a second ticket and we’re at $1200. Add a babysitter (I was pregnant in 2016 and had to convince a VERY kind security person to let me take crackers into Nats Park so I wouldn’t throw up) and with how long Bruce plays, we’re looking at $1350. For a single show. And that’s IF we can get them at face value, which with the Platinum pricing fiasco, is a slim chance.

Yes, I’m a bestselling author now (that feels so weird to say), but that’s not covering enough to justify that price point. We need a new car soon. Our kitchen desperately needs a makeover. And eventually, my kids are going to need to go to college.

I’m going part-time at school this year, mostly to get my five year old to kindergarten in the morning, which we’re able to do because we went from paying $42,000 a year in daycare/preschool to $28,000 a year and because of the books. But I still can’t spend 3-4 weeks of grocery money on a single concert.

I don’t begrudge Bruce making money. Do I think he needs that much more when he just sold his catalogue to Sony for half a billion dollars? No. I know the rich are different and I can’t put a value on what he’s added to my life. But I’m sad that he’s priced me out of one of the biggest things that brought me joy before I had my kids.

I also know I’m going to get two VERY different types of responses to this post. The non-Springsteen fanatics are sitting there calculating how much I spent over the years on 42 shows at the earlier price points and thinking I’m insane for that, let alone contemplating what they are now. And the diehard Springsteen fans are sitting there saying, “You’re making a choice. You can always make more money. Go to the show.”

There’s also always the third option of getting cheapie seats. But I’ve sat in the 400s at Capitol One (It will ALWAYS be the Verizon Center in my head and nothing will ever change that. I still call Jiffy Lube Nissan, and I refuse to call National Airport anything other than National Airport. Deal with it.). And I’ve had my elbows on the stage. I don’t want to pay $400 (with the babysitter factored in) to squint at the screens, while tiny, E Street Band shaped ants perform on stage.

I also know that this is the biggest first world problem ever. Poor me, I can’t justify spending the money to be in the pit for my forty-third show. But I suppose this is also me saying I’ve grown up. And instead of the Wendy who wraps her legs ‘round these velvet rims and straps her hands ‘cross these engines, I’m the Wendy who is ever so much more than twenty. I grew up a long time ago.

In the video of me on-stage, when I get back into the pit, you can see me texting someone. It was my now-husband. That concert happened between our first and second dates. And I told him I was dancing on stage that night before it happened. And he later said that he was like, “who IS this girl?” because I knew what I wanted and I made it happen and so few people go for it like that.

I want to go to the shows. But I want what’s best for my family more. And I didn’t have the responsibilities that I have now, then.

What’s actually going to happen when the tickets go on sale?

I don’t know the answer.

I might cave. And my husband will say we should go to the show if that happens, although I’ll spend months second guessing myself and debating selling the tickets.

I might stay strong and say no, I’m not spending that much.

Either way, I’m probably going to cry and hope this new book sells crazily well so that I can go without feeling guilty.

But I know I’m not the only fan today sitting around, thinking ‘bout Glory Days.

Author life, Mom Life

I got called a celebrity. In reality, I am held together by iced coffee and dry shampoo.

Sara Confino

Recently, someone called me a celebrity. Like in a non-joking way, because of my book.

And while I was flattered, I felt the need to correct her.

Now, I’m not one of those people who can’t take a compliment. If you tell me my hair looks nice, I’ll thank you (even though 90 percent of the time, it’s dirty. #momlife). Tell me you like my shirt, I’ll thank you and tell you where I got it (likely answer? Amazon. Let me send you a link!). 

But a celebrity? 

Another author I know (okay, that part sounds famous) said that only one percent of authors are able to make a real living off of their book royalties. Which is the most discouraging number I’ve ever heard, but we beat on, boats against the current–wait, I’m stealing that from an ACTUAL famous author. 

(And I did once spend four hours as the number one bestselling humor author in Australia. #famous)

Admittedly, authors steal a lot too. (Sorry friends who have recognized bits of themselves in my work! Love you!)

Hopefully I’ll make it to that elusive one percent someday, but so far, I haven’t seen a cent in royalties. Because if you get an advance, you don’t see another penny until your book “earns out,” meaning makes that amount of money back. And if your book sells at auction like mine did… well, you’ll be waiting a few months at best.

With that said, sales have been solid and I’m happy with them. And I’m EXTREMELY excited for my next book, She’s Up to No Good, which is coming out August 1. 

But a celebrity?

My alarm goes off at 5:55 on school days. Notice I didn’t say I wake up at 5:55, because I’m often already awake from one child or the other. Jacob will run in at 5:30 under the guise of a bad dream (aka woke up and wants me to tuck him back in), and if Max hears him, we’re all up.

I shower at night now because a morning shower is NOT guaranteed with two little ones. 

Did you hear that? It was the sound of my mother retching. Sorry mom. 

We then race around to make breakfast while getting dressed, taking the dog out, and keeping two tiny humans alive while they run amok and dive bomb off of anything they can climb. I drink my coffee (which I make at home) over ice because iced coffee won’t burn a child when they inevitably run into or dive bomb off of me. (And I’m basic. Deal with it.)

Breakfast is a scarfed bowl of cereal at the counter while I get everyone’s lunches into the correct bags. I messed up and gave the kids the wrong lunches two weeks ago. I’m now supervised heavily in this role lest I mess up again. (One mistake all year. And I’ll never be trustworthy again.)

Then I wrestle the tiny humans into clothes. Jacob will only wear short sleeves and his outfit HAS to match his brother’s. If Max doesn’t have the same shirt, SOMETIMES Jacob will settle for one that’s the same color and material. SOMETIMES. 

Assuming I succeed, I take Jacob to school and the husband takes Max. We have not left on time yet. We’re 110 days into the school year and we are 0/110. That’s a wordle score I definitely wouldn’t post.

After drop off, I drive like a demon (or an angry groundhog, as Jacob would say. We showed him that scene of the movie on Groundhog Day and now he tells me not to drive angry) to make it to school (where I do the walk of shame, teacher-mom style, daily. I arrive late, in sunglasses, with my coffee from home. My principal is amazing and knows I’m frequently late from drop off so I promised never to walk in with Starbucks and to do my best to get here. That promise I’ve kept!). And I have the speed camera tickets to prove it. 

I spend the next seven and a half hours being, as one of my students put it the other day, the mask police. We used to spend our days telling kids to put their phones away. Now it’s “cover your nose. Pull your mask up. I shouldn’t see nostrils. Eat that in the hall. Keep your mask on. Why is only your chin covered? Turn to page–no, don’t pull your mask down to sneeze!” etc. 

For the record, yes, I hate masking too. But my kids aren’t old enough to be vaccinated, so it’s the only thing I can do to keep them safe from me for now. 

Then, when the day is over, I race back home, eat a quick snack, and, if I’m fast enough, do a VERY SHORT workout before the kids arrive home.

Then I’m on mom duty for the rest of the day. Breaks do not exist. If I use the bathroom, they will find me. They get 30 minutes to an hour of tv so that I can make their lunches for the next day and pull together dinner, which is futile because they’ll wind up eating dinosaur nuggets no matter what I make. And yes, they must be shaped like dinosaurs or they will not be consumed.

Then it’s an hour of bath time and getting them ready for bed.

Whew! I’m done.

No, wait, I’m not. Then it’s time to write.

Because I’m not exhausted by 8pm or anything.

I give myself an hour and a half to write/edit, then finally hop in the shower (without washing my hair. I told you it’s dirty!) and MAYBE watch 20 minutes of tv with the hubs while I drink a glass of well-earned wine before bed. 

I may be living the beginning of the dream with my publishing career, but I feel as far from a celebrity as it’s possible to get. Instead, I’m a tired mom working multiple jobs and feeling like I can’t possibly juggle another ball, all while people keep tossing me more balls. And as Keegan, my high school journalism teacher, will tell you, I’m the only Rampage alum whom he failed to teach to juggle. 

But to answer what I’m sure are your only two questions after reading all of this: YES, I’m working on book three, and I wash my hair on weekends.