rock star on the verge
A rock star guitar god and his nephew set out on their motorcycles for a life-changing adventure!
NOW AVAILABLE!

"Think about it. But think fast. This is the chance of a lifetime. Let's go chase an adventure together."

Growing up as the son of notorious rock star Martin Whelan, I've enjoyed both the perks and the ridicule that come with his fame. Now, I've got my own bit of Instagram-ready celebrity, including some harmless pranks and a starring role in the local Dublin club scene.

When, on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, my guitar god uncle Conor Quinn suggests I go on a motorbike road trip through Europe to shake up what he calls my "sheltered" existence, I tell him I'll go if you go.

I never thought he'd take me up on it.

But, he's got it stuck in his head that if I get some "real life" experience, I might just be able to jump-start my own musical ambitions.

Only thing is, he's not exactly his usual cool and controlled self. See, in the middle of his surprise fortieth birthday party, he gave his band mates of twenty years some shocking news no one was ready for, least of all me.

With that revelation, it seems this road trip could be a disaster before we've even started.

Or ... it could be the adventure of a lifetime.

Rock Star on the Verge is a coming of age - road trip through Europe - finding your inner rock star book! 

Excerpt from ROCK STAR ON THE VERGE:

“What shall I play?” I ask.

“Whatever comes to you,” Conor says. “Whatever this guitar speaks to you.”

I smile at that, holding back a laugh. No guitar has ever “spoken” to me. I’ve only ever had a love-hate relationship with the instrument. I love it for what I want to be able to create. And I hate it for rarely being able to actually get the right notes out. As much as I love music and the guitar, I’ve never felt particularly gifted. It’s always felt like a struggle to make what I hear in my head become a reality. That frustration, along with my hesitation to offer myself up for ridicule has held me back. 

With all this swirling in my head, I feel my hands start to move, creating a delicate introduction before opening into the harsher main thrust of the song. Once more, I find that perfect feeling of not overthinking.

Of just playing. 

Of giving no fucks.

When I finish, I’ve got the same sense of riding a high like no other as I did earlier. No alcohol, no drug has ever made me feel like this. This is what unleashing creativity and passion feels like.

This is working my art. 

And fuck, it feels good. 

“What a song to pick,” Conor says.

I shrug that off. “Eh, just one I like to rage with.”

He raises his eyebrows. “‘The Pretender’ by Foo Fighters. I’d say it’s a good fucking anthem for you right about now.”

I think about that, about how the lyrics aren’t about self-doubt and worrying about being a fake, or pretender, but rather pushing away that idea and insisting those trying to keep you down or box you in are the pretenders. I don’t think I’d consciously considered the lyrics, at least not for this particular moment. But the idea must have been there, pushing me to embrace the possibility that I could do something with music if I flip the script and understand that anyone who might dismiss me just because I’m Martin Whelan’s son is the pretender, not me. 

Nodding, I can’t help but smile.“You want to give it a go?” I ask, ready to hand over the guitar. “She’s a real beauty.”

“She’s yours, Donal.”

“What?”

“That is, if you can be bothered to carry it around with us?”

“Yes, of course,” I say quickly. “Sure, I don’t mind at all. I’ll strap it to my back, it’s fine.”

I swear that when he smiles then, his blue eyes actually twinkle in amusement and satisfaction. If giving me a handmade guitar that sounds as fantastic as this one does makes him happy, then I’m all for it. The fact that I’m getting a one of a kind instrument to make my own music on is a pretty fucking awesome bonus. 

© Lara Ward Cosio