"Life Upon The Wicked Stage..."

Spotlights and standing ovations are the things every actor and actress lives for. But a career in theater isn't all glory, there's a whole other side of the road to fame.

When I get nervous I don't get butterflies, I get hornets. It's no delightful, fluttery sensation; it's a deep wrenching of my gut, like a million tiny clawed hands ripping at my insides.

Stage fright isn't something I get often. I can get up on stage and not forget my lines, or stutter like some people do. I don't throw up pre-performance (or post either). I don't need nerve calming pills, or any of those things many people use. The only tingle I usually have is a giddy wave of delighted excitement and anticipation.

So as I was standing there on stage, the hornets buzzing angrily in my stomach, it was an unusual sensation for me. Then, as I went to recite my monologue and I came up with a blank, I was filled with a terrible feeling. Defeat. I stood there in the dark theater, just a dim spotlight highlighting my crestfallen features. The single spotlight, on me. It was just like all my daydreams...and I had screwed up.

Nothing is worse than a sympathetic smile from the auditioners and a offhand "don't call us, we'll call you" comment. It sends you spiraling down a dark tunnel of regret and self pity.

It's funny how when you feel defeated, how everything seems louder and bolder. I remember the sound of my shoes clicking on the hard wooden stage, and the way the lights shone down through the thick darkness. I remember how I tried to smile as I left the theater and walked slowly back into the hallway full of people. How hard I tried to not show that I had done worse than they had. How I suddenly felt a wall before my eyes, making me unable to connect with anyone else, for fear that they would know and laugh. Or worse, they would feel sympathy.

Three months later, here I am again. In this very same theater. Same walls, same lights, same stage...same hornets. This time the piano starts up, I open my mouth and my voice fills the theater. The sound resounds between each carefully built wall and finds every dark corner. Not a mis-sung word, not a bad note. My voice and my heart sail on the glory, on the victory. I smile into the approving faces of the same auditioners who gave me sympathetic smiles three months before.

Three months more. Same stage, same lights, same dark theater; but the hornets are gone. I smile as I trot on stage, my chorus girl curls bouncing in the spotlight and my high pitched fake accent filling the theater. I smile as I strut onstage with my fellow chorus girls, all of us clad in slinky red leotards and fishnet tights. I smile as I step up to the microphone for my solo and my strong belt voice is the only one that could be heard without the microphone. And I smile as I prance onto the stage for one last time. As the audience cheers, I grab the hands on either side of me, and as I bow deeply, I smile.

Essay Copywright Inner Eye Publishing 1998