the play.
I love character work, and not just because it's what I'm good at. Being another person was what first attracted me to the theatre. First it was dreaming of being Annie or Dolly instead of my fat, socially inept self. Then, when I got to middle school, I actually got to have that experience.
I remember the first time I stepped on stage as a society lady in the opening scene of Guys and Dolls (I was a Hot Box dancer later on -- surprise, I know, even as a fat seventh grader I could dance). For the first time people were looking at me without seeing the slightly odd, terminally shy, chubby girl. I was somebody else, and that person didn't worry about being fat and she certainly wasn't shy -- she was rich and successful and had spent the whole day shopping for high fashions while her boyfriend tagged along carrying packages. And somehow, when the show was over, a little bit of her stuck with me, and I was a little less shy and a little more confident and maybe I was just as fat, but it didn't hurt quite as much.
And that happened every time I did a show until you got what you have now -- the fat kid who is brimming with confidence (or egotistical, depending on how you look at it), and borders on the obnoxiously un-shy most of the time, around her friends at least. You might not think it's an improvement, but I do.
Cameron and Melissa and I spend Friday evening and Saturday afternoon in his editing studio working our scenes in Act I. Cameron is constantly suggesting business, finding laugh lines that even I didn't know were there, and generally making the characters so much more rich and full on the stage than I had envisioned them on the page. It's the first time I've seen him as something other than a traffic director -- because up til now we've just been doing blocking. But now it seems almost like he's the co-playwright. You know you hear all that stuff about theatre being a collaborative art form, but you never really understand it until you write a play and then someone comes along and finds all sorts of things in the script that you had no idea were there.
"So, Act II tomorrow?" I say when Melissa announces that she has to go baby-sit her little brother.
"I've got to write a history paper," says Cameron. "We'll get these scenes on their feet and run them at rehearsal Monday night."
Melissa says goodbye and rushes off, and Cameron and I fall onto the couch. I'm suddenly exhausted from plumbing the depths of someone else's personality.
"I had no idea that Aggie in the play was so different from me," I say.
"It's funny what you don't see when you write something," says Cameron. "I guess because you're so close to it."
"You're so good at this," I say, squeezing Cameron's arm. "Have you ever thought about becoming a director?"
"Not before now," says Cameron.
"And now?" I ask.
"Remember what you said about playwriting?" he says. "You told us all what a rush it was to discover something you were really good at."
"Yeah."
"Well, it's the same for me with directing. Here all this time I thought I was going to be a film editor, but yesterday I -- " He gets up and goes to the window.
"What?"
"I changed my application to film school from the editing program to the directing program."
"Cameron, that's fantastic," I say, and despite my exhaustion I jump up and give him a hug.
"It's all thanks to you," he says.
"That's not true," I say. "This whole thing was your idea. And besides, it's been a team effort from the start."
"Yeah," says Cameron, "but -- well, thank you."
And we hug again, for a long time, and I've changed my friend's life, and I don't think I could feel any better if I woke up tomorrow morning with the body of a cheerleader.
Scene 4
If there is one thing you don't want to see at Piedmont Day, it's a piece of blue paper taped to the outside of your locker. We call them "blue notes," not just because of the color of the paper, but because they're always bad news, and almost always directly from
I love character work, and not just because it's what I'm good at. Being another person was what first attracted me to the theatre. First it was dreaming of being Annie or Dolly instead of my fat, socially inept self. Then, when I got to middle school, I actually got to have that experience.
I remember the first time I stepped on stage as a society lady in the opening scene of Guys and Dolls (I was a Hot Box dancer later on -- surprise, I know, even as a fat seventh grader I could dance). For the first time people were looking at me without seeing the slightly odd, terminally shy, chubby girl. I was somebody else, and that person didn't worry about being fat and she certainly wasn't shy -- she was rich and successful and had spent the whole day shopping for high fashions while her boyfriend tagged along carrying packages. And somehow, when the show was over, a little bit of her stuck with me, and I was a little less shy and a little more confident and maybe I was just as fat, but it didn't hurt quite as much.
And that happened every time I did a show until you got what you have now -- the fat kid who is brimming with confidence (or egotistical, depending on how you look at it), and borders on the obnoxiously un-shy most of the time, around her friends at least. You might not think it's an improvement, but I do.
Cameron and Melissa and I spend Friday evening and Saturday afternoon in his editing studio working our scenes in Act I. Cameron is constantly suggesting business, finding laugh lines that even I didn't know were there, and generally making the characters so much more rich and full on the stage than I had envisioned them on the page. It's the first time I've seen him as something other than a traffic director -- because up til now we've just been doing blocking. But now it seems almost like he's the co-playwright. You know you hear all that stuff about theatre being a collaborative art form, but you never really understand it until you write a play and then someone comes along and finds all sorts of things in the script that you had no idea were there.
"So, Act II tomorrow?" I say when Melissa announces that she has to go baby-sit her little brother.
"I've got to write a history paper," says Cameron. "We'll get these scenes on their feet and run them at rehearsal Monday night."
Melissa says goodbye and rushes off, and Cameron and I fall onto the couch. I'm suddenly exhausted from plumbing the depths of someone else's personality.
"I had no idea that Aggie in the play was so different from me," I say.
"It's funny what you don't see when you write something," says Cameron. "I guess because you're so close to it."
"You're so good at this," I say, squeezing Cameron's arm. "Have you ever thought about becoming a director?"
"Not before now," says Cameron.
"And now?" I ask.
"Remember what you said about playwriting?" he says. "You told us all what a rush it was to discover something you were really good at."
"Yeah."
"Well, it's the same for me with directing. Here all this time I thought I was going to be a film editor, but yesterday I -- " He gets up and goes to the window.
"What?"
"I changed my application to film school from the editing program to the directing program."
"Cameron, that's fantastic," I say, and despite my exhaustion I jump up and give him a hug.
"It's all thanks to you," he says.
"That's not true," I say. "This whole thing was your idea. And besides, it's been a team effort from the start."
"Yeah," says Cameron, "but -- well, thank you."
And we hug again, for a long time, and I've changed my friend's life, and I don't think I could feel any better if I woke up tomorrow morning with the body of a cheerleader.
Scene 4
If there is one thing you don't want to see at Piedmont Day, it's a piece of blue paper taped to the outside of your locker. We call them "blue notes," not just because of the color of the paper, but because they're always bad news, and almost always directly from
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