Free Starry-Eyed by Ted Michael Page A

is never fun. And trying to cover for someone else’s mistake can be heart-wrenchingly nervous. Would people think I was the one who messed up? Would they be weirded out? Would the director be upset with me? But “the show must go on.” At that moment, keeping the audience entertained was all I could focus on—not whether I was scared or anxious about what might happen next. I remember referencing the other actor onstage. Then, seeing she was terrified and completely lost as to what was going on, I made some crack about her and being deaf for some reason. The audience lost it.
    Finally, Rosemary walked out, also completely bewildered as to where I was in the script, and I covered that as well. We broke into song and dance as one is wont to do in a musical, and then Rosemary exited. Indoing so, the door she left from came off its hinge, swaying awkwardly, revealing all of the other actors getting ready to come onstage for their entrances.
    Again it happened.
    I made some comment about budget cuts, told the people standing in view of the audience to get back to work (I was playing their boss after all . . .), and slammed the door into place. The audience laughed and applauded, which startled me since I was used to applause at the fall of the curtain. The scene ended, and I left feeling something I couldn’t articulate. To this day I don’t know what I said, or even if what happened was any good. In that moment though, I got the certainty I needed: I was an actor.
    It’s not the applause, the laughter, nor the praise, (in fact, I’ve mostly received the opposite of praise). It was the alive-ness. I know that’s not a word, but that’s what it is. Danger, excitement, connectivity, the moment, and what comes out when those things are combined. Just throwing myself out there. That’s why I do it. It doesn’t matter if I’m brilliant, terrible, ugly, beautiful, happy, or sad. It’s getting out there anyway and knowing it will turn out as it should.
    I AN H ARDING is an American actor whose work can be seen in several films and television shows, most notably on ABC Family’s Pretty Little Liars as Ezra Fitz. He attended the Carnegie Mellon School of Drama, and would like to thank his friends Ted Malawer and Nic Cory for their totally unfounded faith in his talent. Along with his above anecdote, Ian would like to add that he is still learning the ins and outs of show biz, and would encourage the reader to remain forever a curious student.

TESSITURA
    Maryrose Wood
    â€œSing a little something for us, Fiona. Come on, love, give us a song.”
    A table full of bleary eyes and eager smiles swivels my way, like a bank of searchlights converging on an escaped prisoner. I flinch, can’t help it. Then I laugh, to make like it’s all right. They’re Niall’s friends, after all. I have to be nice. I’ll sing whatever they like.
    â€œSure, Fiona, let’s have a song. Sing ‘Molly Malone.’”
    â€œSing ‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.’ Gets me every time.”
    â€œBit military for a birthday, don’t you think?”
    â€œâ€™Tis, you’re right. Sing ‘Danny Boy’ then.”
    â€œâ€˜Danny Boy,’ that’s it!”
    Look, they’re crying already. Just say the words “Danny Boy” to this crowd and their eyes turn to faucets. The Japanese may have invented karaoke, but we Irish have our own version. We call it life . We can’t gather for five minutes without someone calling for a song. At least, that’s the way it goes in Niall’s circle of friends. They’re all creative types to begin with, of course. Fiddlers, drummers, dancers, poets. New arrivals and nostalgic expats, their Irishness seems to double the minute they arrive in Woodlawn. And I don’t mean the cemetery, though that’s here too.
    Woodlawn is the Bronx’s own Little Ireland. Take a walk down Katonah