I just heard Stephen Sondheim interviewed on NPR's "Fresh Air," on the occasion of his 80th birthday. What an immense talent (and a slightly weird guy, a quality which often lopes alongside immense talent). As I listened, my heart ached with the loss of the life I briefly led, many years ago, as a musical theatre actress. It was the residual ache of a choice - not regretted, but often revisited.
In the musical theatre universe, of course, Sondheim is Dionysus, Apollo and Zeus all rolled into one. Gypsy, West Side Story, A Little Night Music, Company, Sweeney Todd - even the most Tony-illiterate among us can hum a line or a lyric of his. One of his best is one of my favorites: Sunday in the Park with George, a story of art and passion and what it can cost you to be true to your creative core.
In the interview, I heard lots of parallels to speechwriting: about the creative process, what it's like to be mired in it, how it frustrates and satisfies like nothing else, and how those of us who house creative souls must listen to them and let them lead us in every endeavor. Our work must articulate vision, convey meaning and inspire action, no matter the subject or speaker. It's the work of actors, directors, writers and stage managers all rolled into one. That's why I love it so.
The goal of every creative person I've ever met is to find themselves so absorbed in the intensity of the creative experience - "finishing the hat" as Sondheim describes it - that they just "trance out" and disappear into the moment. It's a fantastic place to be, and every time I get there in my own work I know things are in flow and headed toward wonderful.
My time in the theatre was like that, too. Theatre folk, like speechwriters, are project people. We thrive on the thrill of starting something new and the challenges we find in the mess that it all melts into halfway through. We complain but secretly enjoy the slog to the top of the mountain that is dress rehearsal or final draft. We're electrified by the 11th-hour emergencies - computer crash? laryngitis? - and the adrenaline rush that pushes us past the crisis. And then we're left in our own creative wake, exhausted, proud and wondering how the hell we made it through. The idea of doing it again is absolutely paralyzing... until, of course, we get the opportunity to do it again.
I spent a handful of volatile, emotional, expansive years in the theatre and then realized I needed to find a career that was a bit less serendipitous. It was a conscious choice; that doesn't mean it was an easy one. But as Sondheim reminds us:
I chose and my world was shaken. So what?
The choice may have been mistaken; the choosing was not.
You have to move on....Stop worrying if your vision is new.
Let others make that decision . . .
they usually do!
You keep moving on...Anything you do, let it come from you--
then it will be new.
Give us more to see.
Speechwriting is my stage now, the place from which I hope to "give us more to see." And while it's not Broadway, the creative bursts are just as joyous, illuminating and ephemeral. I don't think I'd want it any other way.
Now if I could just find a client who's willing to work in a torch song or a big dance number, that would be beyond fabulous. I'm not holding my breath, though. Most folks have enough trouble getting through the Powerpoint.
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