Three Percent Of Performers Make a Living Performing

The curtains are now open...

The bright lights are hot and I am boisterous, large, full of life.

When the music cues, I sing deep and strong and I even surprise myself at how Broadway I feel. That dream, the one of me on that stage, with the hearts of people held in my hands as fragile and innocent as eggs, that dream feels real.

But that was the last curtain. No one goes to Julliard because of Open Mike Night and Karaoke. And singing at home felt like a knife in my chest.

That dream left stasis and entered it’s afterlife when I stood in a coffee shop and couldn’t finish “Fever” due to nerves. I had siked myself up the whole ride there with my friend in my ’96 Olds. I even brought the damned sheet music and fueled my anxiety reading lyrics and humming notes. The worst part? The sort of nail in my nonperformance coffin? After I ended the song early, the owner came to our seat and told me the night was for “original pieces.” My already pounding heart flushed my cheeks hotter and I was grateful for the dim light.

“It was so good,” he said. “I would have let you finish! Please, come back.”

I did not go back, except for coffee and never on Open Mic Night.

The last stage, a raised floor in a small town church, fold up chairs and a friend with a guitar, the last stage felt like purpose. Yet, with each note, and with each quivering nerve, the stage became the grave I’d lain the coffin.

We had a love affair, the stage and I, and she showed me who I am by allowing me to be someone else. I miss her, and she is indifferent.