My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Two

And then, as fate would have it, I, Saint Cupcake, was thrown a bone.

When I was 12, I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings. Like, an embarrassing amount. I would make up and act out stories about it in my room. But everything I said sounded so wrong for those characters in my regionally non-specific American accent that I started softening my R’s to sound more British. Over the past 11 years I have carved out a pretty authentic English accent. This enabled me to catch the bone fate had thrown.
     In this particular play, which takes place in Connecticut in 1936, there happens to be a character that is both female and English. She’s a large, frumpy, middle-aged woman mostly referred to as The Inspector. I had gotten pretty comfortable in my chair by this point, as I had not volunteered to read for anything, when the director asked a woman to read for The Inspector. She seemed to be a very capable actress, but didn’t do well with the accent. When she finished, the director asked if anyone else wanted to read for The Inspector and I raised my hand and said quickly, “Oh! I would!”

Just like that. Like I had been waiting in the back for inspiration to strike or for a character I really felt. But that isn’t true. I don’t know if you picked up on what had happened here, but the bone I caught was not that I love accents and happen to be pretty good at this particular one—it was that this woman had not been good and I knew I was better than she was.

I was the girl who could not drag herself on stage until she had proof that she was going to be better at it than someone else. Cowardice is dangerously easy to dress up.

I am not one to think very highly of myself, but I really didn’t think I was one to use another’s weakness as the ego boost required to do something I had volunteered for in the first place. I might be making a big deal of this because my reading a scene was not, in and of itself, a mean thing to do. But if I am known as anything, I want to be a cheerleader(figuratively). I want to be for everyone. I want to rally for the success of each individual I come into contact with.

This has given me a little insight into why actresses and actors are batsh*t crazy. It’s because they must compete for everything. And once you get it, you still haven’t won, you have to then prove that you deserved to get it, that you’re capable. You also spend a large amount of your time with other people who are crazy for all the same reasons as you. In community theater that means you become this little family unit. I currently have one cousin, two friends, one big sister, one aunt, one brother, and one twin.

Something I didn’t really expect was how much say you don’t have. I didn’t know until the first read through that kissing would be involved. I don’t really care, but it’s something to know you don’t get a say in the matter. The first dress I tried on had a much lower neckline than I’m used to, but it’s my costume, so there you go. (It deserves to be said that this dress is a floor-length ivory gown with sheer fabric over the chest. It’s no Jessica Rabbit.) The Inspector has one line that I really would not want to say. You just don’t get much choice. I was lucky in that I got a character who I am both comfortable with portraying and who is really super awesome. Fantastic bit of writing there.

END OF EPISODE 2

Will Tori get a role? Yes, you can tell that she did. Will she learn not to be a coward? Probably not. Will she save Timmy from the well? That is not a question that was posed here. Tune in next time for the exciting continuation of My Experience in Community Theater! 

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode One

I nearly threw up. Both nights of auditions I thought I was going to vomit; such was my terror. It’s not that I don’t like attention or wanted it so badly I could taste it.{Or rather the fish tacos from that afternoon} It’s that I hate being laughed at and I hate looking stupid. If I am not talented in a particular area, I want to be the first to know.
     As a freshman in high school I joined the beginners choir. It was the one you didn’t have to audition for. There were a few opportunities throughout the year to get solos. I tried out for most of them and even got one. {One Fine Day, first verse, yes, I am prepared to break this out should anyone ever break up with me.} There was a girl in my choir whose name I never learned. She was…something. Have you seen Rise of the Guardians? {Not the owl movie. If you haven’t, you must, best animated movie in a long, long time and the best animated villain in the past ten years.} Well, this girl looked like a blondish version of Cupcake: 

• Medium height
• Broad shoulders 
• Hair she may have cut herself 
• Unicorn shirts that were not ironic or well-fitted 
• Backpack in the shape of an animal

     Cupcake auditioned for every solo. She could not sing. 

     I say I can’t sing, but that’s just because I’m the least capable singer in my family—well, tied for least with my mother. Cupcake didn’t sing any discernible notes, she just warbled up and down. She had a sense of timing I didn’t know could exist until she was on the microphone between two separate pairs of cheerleaders so self-possessed and co-dependent that they were rendered incapable of both not auditioning and auditioning alone. I remember sitting in my chair in the second soprano section and trying to smile supportively as though that might drown out the snickering of the first soprano section. It did not. All I could think was, She doesn’t know. She honestly does not know what she sounds like. Everyone else knows. It was the second most painful moment of my life until then. {The first most painful had been when my mom and I accidentally hit that deer with our Dorango.}
     I did not audition for that solo. What if I don’t know either? What if I don’t know and everybody else does? Actually, I don’t remember, but I may not have auditioned for another solo for the rest of my choir career. What I did do was make a promise to myself. A vow, even, given the ferocity with which I have kept it. I vowed to never ever be Cupcake. I would always know. I would be the first to know and I would make sure that everyone knew that I knew when I was bad at something. That’s right, not only would I never be Cupcake, I would never be mistaken for her either. This, you can imagine, is quite a large responsibility to carry.
     So, when I showed up to auditions at Cascade Theatrical Company, a good ten years later, I nearly threw up. According to the voice in my head, I had just sentenced myself to the very fate I had staved off for the past decade. I was new back in town and wanted to meet people and be part of a team project. Like a lamb, I, Saint Cupcake, went silently and nauseated to the slaughter.
     I didn’t think I could act. I certainly didn’t know how to audition. I didn’t know the technical rules of being on stage. I didn’t know what I should sound like or act like or be like at all. I didn’t have any concept of what would be expected of me. I just knew that I was the least experienced and that everyone could tell. I didn’t think they’d laugh, just pity me in respectful silence; as one does with saintly martyrs.
    And then, as fate would have it, Saint Cupcake was thrown a bone.

END OF EPISODE ONE

Will Victoria get a role? Will she vomit on stage? Will she actually be martyred in a vat of boiling oil? Tune in next time to see the exciting conclusion of My Experience in Community Theater!

A Little Free Write to Get My Head Straight

In hopes of concentrating, I've written the meanderings of a very sad person. I don't know who she is, maybe I'll write her story sometime:

Rain fell that night. Not a particularly interesting fact, I suppose. Rain falls most nights in winter. But every time I think about him all I see's the rain. I hear it. And feel it in my hair. I don't smell it. You can't smell the rain here. It doesn't announce itself. Just comes and is, until it goes. Sometimes when I dream all I see is the rain and I know I've gone back there; to that night. When I wake up, my face is wet. Laura says it's because I've been crying. But I know. I know it's that damned rain.

Welcome to Bend, OR! Where everyone smiles and the traffic laws don't matter!

After living in the Portland/Vancouver area for five years, I've moved back to my hometown of Bend, OR. Bend, if you are not aware, is home to 80,995 people(except in the summer when the population jumps to 100,000. Tourists, right.) A number which is rivaled only by our brewpubs and roundabouts. If you're going to move to any city in Oregon besides Portland, there are plenty of arguments to be made for Bend.

1. Bend has over 300 days of sunshine each year.
2. Mt. Bachelor is in spitting distance for those of you who love both winter sports and spitting.
3. The Deschutes is floatable in the summer time, and unlike those pesky "cool" rivers that make you shiver, Dessie is all snow melt. After a good 10 minutes your body will stop hurting and just go numb.
4. SMILES! Everyone is nice to you. I heard that we were voted one of the most welcoming cities in the country, but all I could find was an award we got last year for being the Dog-friendliest city. The official title is DogTown USA. It's less impressive.
5. If you look us up on a map, we're right in the very middle of the whole dang state!
6. There's plenty of culture to mix in with your small town America. And by culture, I still mean Caucasian.

Of course, being back for about two weeks, I can tell you a thing or two that you will not find in Bend.

1. Efficient drivers. Move to a small town, they said. There won't be any traffic, they said. They were right, but whatever traffic there is is probably being caused by a woman in a minivan letting every person in because she's horrible at life. People are so nice here that they break traffic laws.
2. Burgerville. We'll go ahead and label this one a blessing and a curse.
3. Gourmet coffee. GOTCHA! This place is neigh overflowing with cafe's. I know because I just gave my resume to nearly all of them.
4. Reliable public transportation. This doesn't really matter to me as I'm pretty white collar when it comes to transpo.
5. The best Autumn in the state. That prize goes to PTown. Even the sex trafficking capital that is 82nd is magical when you're driving up Fremont in October.
6. Anything open after 10. Except McDonald's, but somehow they take longer at 10 than they do at 4.

These are the things I never noticed about Bend until I moved away and then came back. Still, Portland doesn't have my family and they were the 8 reasons that sealed the deal and brought me back home. Good to be here.
PTown, stay crazy. See you soon,
Victoria

Post Script: Bend never smells like pee, Portland never smells like rain. Bend gets this round.

Where do your ideas come from?
What a splendid, stress-inducing question!
I do love this question as it shows the person is genuinely interested in my work and makes me feel impressive. Then I open my mouth and think, "You're about to sound very unintelligent." I fumble through some nonsense about atmosphere, eternal truths, and organic thought. As the Question Asker's eyes de-glaze they say, "Well, I can't wait to read it!" and we end the conversation.

Oceans and...

Honestly, I've never really thought about where my ideas come from. I thought they just came. Sometimes I force myself to come up with whatever happens next because it's time to write that scene and ideas are no longer allowed to hide. Sometimes I'm writing a scene and someone new walks in, someone I've never met before, but there they are, waltzing in all living and breathing right in the middle of my story. Mostly I listen to music and dream it up. As lovely as these examples are, none of them actually answer the question, where do your ideas come from?
But the other night I had a realization of sorts. I went to a party in Brush Prairie, WA(read: soggy farm land). When I was leaving the party I walked onto the porch and felt the night.
The rain had relented. The deep night sky peaked starless through white clouds and a cluster of mammoth pine trees reached out to me with long, piney fingers.
I descended the porch steps to the field-like lawn and tried to find the stars. When I moved my head the clouds seemed to seep across the sky, but when my head was still they sat still as well. As I stood in the cold, wet air nodding my head at the clouds, I heard a playful sound in the trees to my right. When I looked to the trees I was struck by how frightening pine trees are at night. Peering into the deep black bows I imagined what monsters might have found their perfect hiding place in their branches as the oddly childlike tune of the trickling rain drops held my scariest thoughts at bay.

...xmas trees always give me ideas. Always. 

Just then, I heard someone coming out of the house so I quickly took it all in again. The melody, the dark hiding places, the red-light-green-light clouds, the inky sky, and the wet, wide field. I'm saving you for later, I thought.  And they all sighed with relief because they made it. I cared that they existed and I put them down here. They will each live forever in words written and read.
I've known since I was a teenager that I see the world slightly differently. Things like oceans and Christmas trees are significant and it is very important that I pay them the attention they deserve.
I used to think my ideas Rolodex consisted mostly of nature, but it turns out I notice and save everything. Things like selfishness, judgement, tent cities, brothers-in-law, tiny hands, and cups of coffee so warm and comforting '"it's like drinking a blanket."
Which reminds me, I steal almost everything from you. That last line was not written by me, but said by another writer I know. Sometimes I take your words(with permission, of course) and sometimes I take you and mix you with my favorite parts of books: kindly monk figure(Brent Stahl), strong and reserved young woman(Tess Stern), young knight fighting for justice(the serious House Church Leader version of Matt Solschied), unaffected chick who could easily kill you(Annalise soon-to-be Southwood)  happy-go-lucky, take-on-the-world, true-to-the-end best friend(Brett McLean).
And that's where my ideas come from. Everywhere. But only if I'm paying attention.

A Lark of Sorrow

Of the days when you're just sad and there's no way to fix it.

Away in the peace of a deep green wood

I heard a lark sing the song that he could

Of love newly lost and unfortunate things

Comprised the tale that the lark could sing

Away! I cried, Be gone or be still!

Alas, moaned the lark, I am not yours to quell.

How to be Alone: A Lesson from a Pro

About four years ago, in what was the beginning of the most hopelessly lonely years of my life, my mom prayed, "God, Tori went off to Bible College and is in the very middle of your will, can't she at least have fun on a Friday night?" He said, "Bo, I want so much more for her than a fun Friday night." And this is what He meant.

Alone.
If there's one thing I have under my belt, it's how to be alone.
I've been alone in the darkened theater.
I've been alone in the sun and alone on the rainy beach.
I've been alone.
I need alone, too.

I write alone.
I write alone because the second someone says, "You should add purple scarecrows," purple scarecrows are off limits because they weren't my idea.
I write alone because it's easier to be honest when no one sees you do it.

I sleep alone.
I try very hard to only cry when I'm alone.
I worry alone.
I dance alone.
I dream alone.
I hang out alone. "Ashley liked your status." "Jake retweeted your tweet." "Hannah commented on your photo: #instalife"
Those are the worst alones. They remind you that you are alone.

I pray alone.
I wait alone.
I grieve alone.
I sing alone. Loudly.
I clean alone.
I read alone.
I am the most myself alone.
I moved away from my family all on my own.

Still, I'm only lonely occasionally.
In those moments of lonesome, I call it what it is, smile, and move on.
That sounds like the sort of advice one would receive from someone who gives completely useless advice, but 90% of the battle is giving it a name.



Loneliness,
Fear,
Boredom,
Anger.
When I can't figure out what I'm feeling I say, "I'm in a Funk. It's just a Funk Day," and that usually does the trick.

True story.

All of this alone has taught me how to value loneliness.
It's highlighted my weakness and my strengths: Not great at building a bookshelf, super good at filling.
It's taught me to rely on my own spurring on of self confidence instead of the verbal or typed affirmation of others('cause I'm awesome, that's why).
It's taught me to value the church family I have now and the family that I will have someday.
Because let's be honest, we'd really rather not be alone.

In it's healthiest state, being alone hasn't taken me away from others so much as it has brought me to God.
God is always there.
He knows what I'm thinking and feeling even when I don't realize it, or won't admit it.
He dances and cries and even, on occasion, giggles like a little girl with me.

While I may be the most myself when I am alone, I am a better myself when I'm with Him.
I'm joyful, content, hopeful, compassionate, confident, and lighthearted.
And that is so much better than a fun Friday night.