#mhea2020

With the best books, time falls away. But at any point, for whatever reason, you can put the book down, leave it for another time, revisit it another day once you’ve reached the end. With a play, it’s literally alive. And it’s never the same twice. Ever. As much as an actor can memorize something until their brain melts out of their ears? There’s always the chance some tiny thing could make them forget the next line. So they skip ahead, to say something they do remember, or they make up something entirely unpredictable, right on the spot. One single phrase can be a life-changing revelation one day, and be meaningless the next. One audience might laugh at a funny line, and another will stay completely silent, and yet another laughs at something that’s not meant to be funny at all. A fight can go wrong, or it might be the best version it’s ever been. A character cries one day, and tomorrow their eyes are dry. Blink, and you might miss it. Miss any little thing. A few hours later, it’ll be over forever. Until the next one. And that’s saying nothing of being on that stage. Being one of the people responsible for bringing it to life. Sometimes, you find yourself genuinely thinking your character’s thoughts, without even meaning to. You find all these obstacles getting in the way of what they – of what you – want. You end up trying, so hard, just like you do in real life, to get around them, so you can get what you want. Even if you fail, in the end, trying is what’s most important. Then, on top of all that: knowing that everyone in the audience wants something from you. To learn. To alleviate boredom. To find hope again. To let out all these emotions they’ve been keeping secret inside.

“Mr. Coldwater,” Eliot says. His voice is just above a whisper. Surprised. Uncertain. Delighted.

It’s the first time he’s ever really seen all those people as an afterthought. And it’s the first time he feels like the play is for the people actually bringing it to life, not for the ones looking to be entertained just for an afternoon. He’s not one of those people anymore. Never really was, anyway.

“You put that much thought into things.” It’s not a question, but a confirmation. Praise. Appreciation. Quentin feels like he’s glowing, like someone’s plucked a star from the sky and lodged it in his heart. Someone understands. And not just in a cursory way. It’s like there’s this room inside himself he’s kept locked and in the dark for so long. This tiny admission was like finally opening its door to someone else. Offering them a candle to see with. And then that person suddenly takes the candle from him, and they’ve gone over to the fireplace, to build a blaze.

It’s jarring, how poetic it all sounds. Like Quentin can’t help it. Like he’s got this little way of narrating the people in his life, always going on in the back of his head. Trying to find the best way to describe them, changing the verbiage, never quite landing on the right permutation of words.