When I was about thirteen, I was bored. As bored as any homeschooled kid from the country could be. I hated sports with a fiery passion, and there were only so many dance classes my mother could fit me in. So she went searching for things to keep me busy and found an audition notice for a murder mystery dinner theatre company.
It said to bring a monologue, but, being thirteen, I didn’t have one prepared. And since the audition was the next day, my mother didn’t have time to haul me to the library to sort through plays to try and find one as we were forced to do in the days before you could Google anything.
I did have a book of Shell Silverstein poetry in my room, so I chose a poem and memorized it. Yep. It’s the truth. I did. I went into the Guild Room, which was draped in crimson tapestries, and did a dramatic enactment of a Shell Silverstein poem. And by George, I booked the gig.
When the director called my mother to offer me the role, he didn’t say how talented I was or how pretty. He said he had never seen someone so brave in an audition.
So maybe in the end it’s not about being the best. Maybe it’s about wanting the job enough to do whatever it takes, even if that means a little humiliation and a lot of moxie.