Dear Mama
It's only a week until my first official gig. I'm nervous, Mama. I now feel regret that I accepted it. If only I can sing half as good as you, Mama.
Last night, I practiced some songs. My voice wasn't good. It wasn't that bad, but it's not really good, Mama. My guitar skills is average, or perhaps even below average. I don't know why I thought I can be a performer, Mama. I wish I can make myself good. I am doing my best practicing, Mama.
Please, hold my hand.
Daddy
