ing more than half my life, I've been a slave to my voice, a happy and consenting slave who was afraid of the idea of living in freedom. What would happen in my head and heart when I was deprived of this sweet slavery, this tension, this tremendous sense of exaltation you feel when the crowd goes wild?

To reassure myself, of course, I prepared a very detailed schedule for living. I planned out my sabbatical. I visualized how it would all go, as I had done for my shows.

But I couldn't, especially during the first months, come to a final agreement with myself on the scenario.

One day I would swear to myself that I would not sing a note as long as this sabbatical lasted. Then the next day I would tell myself that I would never be able to resist if somebody offered me a great part in a movie or a beautiful song to record or an appearance in a huge show featuring artists that I admired.

In the end, all my speculations turned out to be wrong.

I had told myself: "No vocal training, old girl, no long silences to rest your voice. It's not needed anymore. Off with discipline, off with training. You're gonna play golf every day. And, to keep your mind busy, you'll take Spanish and drawing lessons."

I even bought colored pencils, pastels, charcoals, watercolors, and fancy drawing paper.

"You're also gonna take piano lessons. And you'll listen to every­thing that comes out in the musical world, good or not, to remain plugged in to show business."

I began to make a list of albums I wanted to listen to.

"And you'll sleep late, all day if you want to."

I had only begun my sabbatical, and I already knew that things were going to be different. And that they would have nothing to do with what I had imagined.

Contrary to what I'd expected, everything went smoothly, without misery or pain. I slipped into that sabbatical as if into a nice warm

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