Stage to Page

I still remember the intoxicating thunder of applause as the velvet curtain closed before my face.

The adrenaline pumping through my veins was a drug I felt as though I’d never quit.

The makeup coating my face, the sticky hairspray holding my updo in place, the manifold of material shrouding my body- it was the perfect armor, being someone other than myself. 

Technically, I gave up acting my freshman year of college, but I hadn’t experienced the same rush of the stage since my junior year of high school. My addiction had fallen inferior to other, “cooler” addictions- fashion, friends, boyfriends, parties… the whole rumble of upper high school exhilaration. 

When I took a theatre class during my freshman year of college, I spent most of the class giggling in the back row of the black box theater with my best friend, who I had convinced to also take the class. 

So, it seemed that the appeal had left. 

I told myself, and my parents, that these things happen. People grow out of their childhood passions, their elementary school daydreams. 

But the dream hasn’t left. Instead, it has transformed.

I started writing poetry in middle school (shoutout to my girl Rupi Kaur!), and it was exactly how you’d expect a 6th grader in advanced reading classes to write- about issues I hadn’t even experienced firsthand. Before I had my heart broken, broke a heart, smoked weed, worked a job, had sex, etc… I was writing about it. 

I found myself falling deep within the idea of being someone other than myself, a familiar feeling to the one acting gave me. And so, there I went; from the stage to the page. 

Wound together like the roots of a tree were my words, my paragraphs, my characters and their narratives. I formed my performance artistry into written, spoken, and read art. 

My stories were oceans to me; vast, with depths unknown, and yet still incredibly intimate. Sometimes there were choppy waters and sharp winds, and at other times it was calm and serene. Romantic and bustling with life, or dark and deeply lonely. 

Last week, I hosted a birthday brunch party for my close friend whom I met freshman year of high school in theatre class. We had both ended up at Berkeley, me for English, and he for Performance Art. 

Having 15 theatre kids over at 11am in the living room of my apartment, which also doubles as the kitchen and dining room, was a chaotic blast. After our second pitcher of mimosas, one of the actors asked the room a question: “So.. why do you guys act?” 

The room erupted with response, my favorite being, “Duh, because it’s the greatest, most magical thing of all fucking time.” 

Hours passed and the question still occupied my mind, and had even multiplied.

Why did I act? Why did I quit? And, why do I write? 

The truth is, I act and I write to transform into someone else. It’s not that I don’t want to be Amelia, but my own character has evolved through experiencing humanity from different lenses. Sometimes the relationship between an actor and the character is co-dependent, sometimes it is interdependent, abusive, or dutiful. But it is always, in my experience, transformative- oftentimes mutually.  

As an actor, and a writer, I strive to shape my sympathy into empathy. To deeply feel and experience different things from contrasting perspectives. I adore the act of playing dress up, literally and figuratively. 

On stage I can be anything, or anyone, I want. And on the page, I can mold my character to be whatever I see fit. It’s a magical thing, to create. 

I still don’t know exactly why I quit acting, and maybe the answer to that is I didn’t. Maybe my performance is in my writing, and its ability to be spoken aloud. 

My ex boyfriend -whom I only officially dated for six days- recently released a song he wrote about me while we were together. It is titled “meryl streep,” and it claims I “live my life on a stage” and am “living a lie.”

No wonder it only lasted six days, huh? 

When he first played the song for me, I was affronted by, what I felt, was a deep misunderstanding of character. A year later, I now understand where he is coming from. Everything I do is a performance; every story I tell, every vicarious life I lead, every interaction I have. 

I’m not fake, and I wouldn’t say I “live a lie,” but I am a storyteller, and an overdramatic theatre kid, through and through. And I like that about myself. 

Take a moment to think about the hobbies that brought you joy when you were younger. Maybe it was gymnastics, cooking, karate, crafting, or acting.  Maybe it was simply sitting down with a good book, or running around the playground at recess. No matter what you loved to do, bits and pieces of your younger self live eternally inside all of us. Take the time to rediscover your childhood joys. You might be able to connect the dots back to who you are today.