Actor: A Novel in Three Acts

Morning.

Cold, but not so frigid I found myself reaching for something to warm me; it was the kind that brought an awareness to my presence, however presently unwound. Then came the sound of many pings. I checked my phone and found flurry of notifications from Instagram. I opened it.

My minds eye glazed over as I scrolled: a post about the new Avengers: Age of Ultron movie costing some $500 million; a post of Minecraft styled explosions over a great city filled with dragons, skeletons, and chickens; a shirtless man in short mauve shorts hanging upside down and doing crunches to German drum and bass music while an ultra-bright sun in the sky shined down on him. He sold high end shorts apparently.

I stopped at a video of an interviewer on a talk show who jovially questioned two reality stars about how many social media followers they had.

"And what about Ms. Barslow?" asked the host.

"She's got to have at least a million," the one in red said.

"Yeah," the other one in a tight, metallic grey mini-skirt replied. Everyone was looking at her. "Oh, I have to say something else. Uh—500,000 followers."

A wheel of numbers spun in place as the crowd clapped and cheered until Ms. Barslow's true number of followers—1.2 million—flashed in gold letters above her headshot.

"Point for you!" The host pointed to the one in red as they moved onto the next influencer.

I swiped up and away and looked around at my empty walls with only the light of the sun on them. Everything was still. The absence of my other than that of an observer made me feel as if I was barely there at all.

Another ping. This time from my computer.

I expected to see something from someone in my family or Tim. Instead, with my fingertips on the cool plastic keys of the keyboard and my breath shallow in my diaphragm, I saw it was something else—a chance.

Ave.

Lisa from Steppenwolf here.

I usually don’t do this. It’s not...industry standards, but I’m getting older and there is only so much time. Such tired constructs when death is eyeing you from some encroaching horizon become irrelevant.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die,

Passing through nature to eternity—and all that.

You don't know what that's like yet. Good for you. I am jealous. I won't lie to myself (and to you) and write that I'm not. Ironically, the feeling is probably similar to that of your creative life right now; not yet fully living because you haven't found out who you are in your art yet. The living dead, as it were, until that day. That's the mood I gathered when we first met anyway.

Blah, blah, blah.

Anyways, I thought your audition was one of the best I have seen in a long time and not just for this project (True West). The possession of objection and fight upheld by a strong foundation of method triggered a re-synthesis in me. It made me realize how long I've been coasting.

I sense a lot of anger in you, disgust, but above all, betrayal. Who that deals with I don't need to know (though I can guess). For this play, that works. All I care about is that it's true and that you have it and can use it for Shepard's play. You went to school, right? You're a professional now. As they say at conservatory: leave whatever you need to at the door. My advice—infuse.

I’m too old and tired and frankly bored with how theatre exists today. Everything feels so…manufactured, like every move we make is somehow tied to something or someone else ad infinitum. You reminded me of why I got into it and why I'm still here: rage, connection, discovery, and wonder.

For the eye sees not itself,

But by reflection, by some other things—just way fucking more.

I blame the phones, but anyway, I’d like to hire you for my version of True West.

Let’s work out what we've uncovered.

If it's nothing, there's always death to look forward to. It's coming either way.

(So morbid nowadays!)

Come by my office tomorrow in the afternoon.

~ Lisa