by Stefania Paparelli

Only in LA could a trailer actually symbolize luxury and success, and that is exactly what I told my actor boss that I longed for as my face scrunched up and tears unwittingly trailed down my cheeks. I quickly wiped the very bottom of my eyes, attempted to catch the droplets before they arrived in his view. Inevitably he noticed as he spun from the mirror and furrowed his brows in sympathy. “Whatchu need? You need some food? Some dessert? You’re officially on break, so…” 

I shook my head and apologized, “I feel like you’ve seen me cry so many times!”

“But it’s for good stuff,” he countered, “You don’t cry over any bullshit. If you did I’d think, this girl’s crazy; it’s cool but she’s damn crazy.” 

I smiled sadly, “I just… I just really thought it was mine. I let myself really imagine it and…I don’t like fantasizing. It’s too painful…not worth feeling like this. Please don’t make me come on set when she’s here.”

“Feel that wrath! Feel that envy!” he joked, “I’ll have you here everyday she’s on set!” 

I shot him a look of mocked horror. “I know the shoot dates. I will call out sick.”

It all began two days prior to this conversation. My agent called me about an audition for a great role on my boss’ show. It sounded perfect for me and the major highlights including being in a shootout with my boss himself! I couldn’t help but endeavor the role was mine; after all, what could be more perfect than making my television debut on a set where I have so much support? I know the entire cast, most of the crew, and my boss “David” is an enormous supporter of my career. 

I dressed my best and drove to the studio with more than a hint of glee about my life. The day had finally come: after 2 years, I was driving onto the studio lot as an actress. I arrived at the casting office with ten minutes to spare and was so determined to remain focused I deflected any of my “competition’s” attempts at conversation. “Thank you, these boots were 5 dollars.” Smile. Eyes immediately back to my lines. 

by Solve Sundsbo

“Brenda?” the assistant called. 

I scooped up my belongings and entered the audition room with a skip in my step. “I’m here!” I kept thinking.

The casting director smiled, gave me the basic direction, and prompted me, “Whenever you’re ready.” I performed the scene with the reader and looked back to the CD when I was finished. “Great! Now more laid back; even sarcastic.”

“Ok. Cool,” I smiled and proceeded to do so.

After this we moved on to the second scene which included a frantic declaration that my best friend had been killed. I went to the corner of the room, chest to the wall, and took a moment to become alive with such a wild emotion. I ran to the reader pronouncing the news. “Again,” said the casting director, then, “Again.” 

The reader smiled and whispered, “Great job” as the casting director held out my picture.

“Give this to the receptionist. See you at 4 for your callback. It was excellent.”

I couldn’t help but jump (one understated jump) and grab my picture. “I will be there!”

The hours between that moment and my callback were one third parts agony and two third parts amazing. I remained focused and even refrained from telling mom and dad what was happening. When I went back to the studio it seemed they narrowed down the actresses to 15 or so. I popped on my headphones, and zoned out on this role. I couldn’t believe how badly I wanted it. Every now and again I glanced to the trailers in the alley, hoping to see David. After all, I wouldn’t be the least bit ashamed if favoritism got me the role: bring on the unfair privilege!

Finally I was called in and found the producer, director, and casting director seated on the other side of a huge conference table. “So, how is it you know [David]?” the casting director inquired.

“I’m his personal assistant.”

“Ah, ok when your picture came in I thought it looked familiar. I finally put that together.” Cool. It seemed I’d gotten in the room with no favoritism at all. 

I read, the producer gave me a new direction and I did the best I could. My one sore regret is that I haven’t studied up on how to replicate being on drugs. His note was “more drugged out” and I’m really not sure I pulled that off the best I could have. Regardless, I held onto quite a bit of faith that the part had to be mine. 

Unfortunately my agent called me the next afternoon to announce some other girl would be living out my fantasy. I really hated her. I wish she had stayed home sick. I wasn’t the least bit into considering she deserved it more than I, or that the timing was simply hers. I actually cried. This isn’t the usual because you gain and lose roles all the time; this opportunity was just closer to my heart due to the circumstances.

Anway, back in David’s trailer, moments after I got the news, I embarrassedly wiped tears from my face and stated, “I just want a trailer, ya know? Of my own.”

David leaned forward in his chair, “You think that’s all you want? You think you’d be happy in a trailer? You think I’m happy just because I’m in one?” I nodded with the knowing of what was coming next. “You have to remember to be grateful or you will never be. We always want the next thing. I star on a show but now I wanna be an action star; I want people to know my name. You need to celebrate this as a victory. You kicked ass. You got the callback. You are obviously a great actress. You kicked ass! You did great! You are never satisfied. I know you, I know you well.” He was completely right. 

I still went through the phases of light grief: sadness to envy to bitterness to acceptance. And today I feel really good. I am so blessed that I continually get callbacks, and I need to revel in each victory. If not, one day soon I will be sitting in a trailer with my name on it, pissed off that the brunette on the show has more lines than me. I’d much prefer walking the route of gratitude and peace in every moment of life, for better or worse, in someone else’s trailer or my own.

I have been in the devoted process of self-torture since last night. It takes a lot of will-power, a great ability to self-loath, and an amazing lack of self-esteem. I am really, really beating myself up the best I can, and it’s working. I was even dedicated enough to pop open my eyes at 5AM and only manage a light and angry sleep, making sure to be pissed at myself all the way ’til 9.

A week ago I went on an audition for a feature film and it went spectacularly. The director became so enthusiastic about my performance that he nearly cried when I announced my hour long meter was up and I had to go. He sighed in disappointment but added, “I will see you at the callbacks! Absolutely.” The producer’s eyes popped in surprise. This must not be his usual protocol, I imagined. We all shook happy hands and I left, floating on a cload of my own approval. 

When I received the callback notice I thought, welp, gotta wait ’til Wednesday to claim that role. It was so mine. The other two girls had no idea they were wasting their time. A whole summer on set; I could hardly wait.

The situation at the callback was to be, 3 potential leading men, 3 potential leading women. We would be interchanged to determine who proved the greatest sexual chemistry, as it is an intense film on love between a younger girl and an older man. So, last night I arrived and found myself to be the only chick on time. The 3 men waited and we all chatted until the director pulled me and the first man into the room. I was really not attracted to him and, although I should have pushed that aside, I did feel it hindered my audition. I shrugged it off knowing I had two more chances to make it right. However, when I entered the foyer again there sat a girl I would let ruin my whole night. 

We actually looked and dressed quite similarly. She was much more petite but we essentially wore the same outfit and a nearly identical desire to be the funniest in the room. She purposefully ignored the other girl and I, only making eye contact to ask me to hand over a bottle of water. The rest of the time she spent buttering up the guys and cultivated a flirtatious relationship with the most attractive guy of the three. I got the distinct impression she knew the role was hers and it was just a matter of deciding which guy she preferred.  

For some wretched reason her assurance slowly chipped away at mine. The greatest audition blunder is comparison and this one gave me three entire hours to ruin myself through her. She went second and when she reentered the room she was practically holding the guy’s hand; it was as though they decided it would be them. And unfortunately, I believed it.

From then on, I could not bring myself back to planet earth where I am fun, confident, and talented. My mind made the experience a competition for a role I cared about instead of an exhilarating opportunity to act. My greatest regret is that the director was on my side and I still couldn’t deliver. He kept saying, “Where’s your electricity? The real you I know? Give that to me this time. Action!” And instead I performed a half-assed rendition of, “God, why won’t that girl get sick and go home?” 

The man tried everything to bring me from my shell. At one point I was even straddling an actor on the floor, kissing, and trying to be intimate… but yes “trying.” “Acting,” not being present. I was on planet jealousy…or rather, insecurity.

Long story short, what hurts the most is that I thought I was so past being such an idiot. I keep thinking I know who I am and what I have to offer. I was so sure I knew better than to stoop down so low. I can’t even believe how badly the director wanted me to succeed… and I didn’t. 

All I can say to the benefit of myself, is that it was a great awakening to my heart. I am so grateful to become aware of this monstrous problem now, because I’ll be damned if I let myself be that way again. I need to work on this issue, starting this instant, to be sure my brain takes a 180 on this. Three cheers to that being the last time insecurity ruins me. Here’s to confidence! Hip. Hip. Hooray.

As many know by now, I like having complete transparency in my writing. When I’m up, it’s known, when I’m down, it’s clear. That being said, I’ve been struggling with the idea of “success” for a while…uh, I mean forever. And lately, it’s rearing its ugly six headed being in a more full force. It would seem that, as honored as I may be to work for successful people, my supposed lack of accomplishment keeps nawing at my feet, begging the question, “Brenda, are you really on the right path? Are you actually walking in the right direction?” For some clarity, here is my story.

In elementary school I was exceedingly quiet. I don’t recall being shy, but more so, observant. I used to sing, loudly and proudly, in the privacy of my bedroom constantly so when the teacher announced auditions for the “head ringmaster” of our circus concert, it seemed natural that I audition. It never occurred to me how astonished Mrs. Dash and her class would be when I opened my mouth and allowed that loud, belty voice to escape. All my classmates’ teeny mouths lay agape as Mrs. Dash uttered several surprised adjectives, staccato.

I remember just how I felt to this day. There was a flush in my cheeks and a gentle roll butterflies breaking through their cocoons in my tummy. I gazed out into the bleachers ahead and knew I had stumbled upon something incredible. The passion I uncovered that day has never left.

In the beginning, I did all I could to move forward. I auditioned for plays in middle school and in between seasons I sought opportunities in the paper for community theater. Not long after I educated myself on local talent agencies and decided to meet with the only “bigwig” I could find: Edie Rob of Talentworks, renown for discovering the 3 Lawrence brothers.

My rejection letter from Edie Robb.

As you can see, it was a disaster. Well, she didn’t type “humiliating failure” in the letter but, believe, it was! My lack of confidence held me back worse than a bouncer would in a bar fight. I couldn’t deliver amidst my fear. Thankfully, local theater kept up my resolve and an understanding that I was talented, just lacking a strong sense of self with the New York or Philadelphia types of industry folk.

However, I never ceased to dream. I spent countless hours in my room creating monologues, rearranging my furniture to resemble a set, teaching myself to cry in the mirror, and staring in awe at the huge screens in local movie theaters. I imagined my life as a pint-sized starlett and even cried in misery over Anna Chlumsky’s role in My Girl. “Why wasn’t I in that movie,” I begged my mom, “Why didn’t I audition?” After I wiped my tears I just imagined myself as her instead, with pretend cameras capturing my Oscar-worthy reaction to Macaulay’s bee death in the back yard.

by Bruce Weber

Fast-forward to today and it’s hard to figure out who I’m “supposed” to be. I have friends my age with Oscar nods, others with starring roles in motion pictures, more who audition constantly, and a few who appear on TV now and again. If I had a dollar every time I heard, “Oh geez, I just was modeling and thought acting would maybe be kinda fun, ya know? And boom! Haha, isn’t that so funny?!” … Yeah. Hilarious. Plainly, it has been confusing, and sometimes disheartening or lonely, to be in a category all my own. I hardly feel like delving into all my supposed woes and instead would prefer to highlight my many blessings.

Honestly, everything I’ve accomplished came so naturally, it just flowed like sweet honey. Those blessings are uncomplicated and lovely. I moved to Los Angeles in short notice after being encouraged by an acting coach. From there every home in which I resided flowed from one to the next. My relationship with Drew was easy from the start and the way we met was never forced. I fell into celebrity styling without even trying, then into PA extraordinaire from there, and have written for magazines simply thanks to word of mouth. None of that is glamorous, but the moments within it all have been cinematic and beautiful; a huge adventure, for sure. But, those were the things I never pined over and exhausted myself towards. It’s all been more like eating a piece of cake I was simply offered- then kicking butt at gobbling it all up.

So, perhaps the lesson is: relax… I am creating- with my Creator- everything I desire. I need to just enjoy the ride.

Enjoy life!!

Last night I did the strangest thing; so strange, in fact that I’ve struggled to wrap my brain around it all day long.

My hand shook as text-messaged the least likely of candidates.

I’ve mentioned this beauty in my former writing and bitterly named her “Bertha”; an ugly name for a gorgeous girl. This tale begins so pettily if I admit that I stole her number from my boyfriend’s phone as he popped the hood of his car. “Bertha” had called him, once again. Although we never met, I was acquainted with her pictures on Drew’s Mac.

With my sincere appreciation for beauty, Drew proudly showed pictures, at my request, of the lovelies he had dated. Doll after doll displayed on the screen and I giggled in awe until suddenly, a sparkling blonde, svelte, wide-eyed, giant-smiled girl appeared. I frowned, “You were with her?” She struck me as absolute aesthetic perfection. When Drew went on to describe her fortunate breeding and her keys to a brand new Bentley I found the envy I worked for years to shed off my being rearing its vile head. I asked her name and rejected it immediately. “Ew, she even has a pretty name! We’ll call her Bertha,” I pronounced and started crying. Drew begged what was wrong, as this is so out of my usual character, but I had no answer but that she was perfect (and that I was PMSing). I described her to my mom as “Me. Only way better.”

My mom did the only thing a good mom would do and attempted the cliché, “That is impossible; no one is better than you!” My mom’s voice was no comfort the first time “Bertha” got in touch with Drew. And the third and forth time. She requested his friendship, but I suspected she longed for more. I begged him to never see her again.

I’d never encountered a girl who made me so insecure despite my absolute trust in my boyfriend. So much so that the last time she called I did the unthinkable, silly girl thing and stole her number from his phone. You know, I thought I’d be brave, throw down the “Back off, hoe!” threat. Of course, this I was totally incapable of. The last time she texted him a simple, “Brenda?” and only explained that she never knew my name.

On Friday, Drew and I hopped around Knott’s Berry Farm (a CA amusement park) and waited jumpily in line for the newest roller coaster. He looked down for a bit and in sorrow said, “Hey. I talked to [her] sister on aim last night. She has Leukemia.” Knowing her age, her beauty I must daydream this is a joke, or at least an exaggeration.

It was over the edge. It was undeniably intrusive. It was possibly selfish. My hands shook as I picked up my pink phone as TV on the Radio resounded in my beat-up car headed back to LA. I had her number. What could I possibly say? What if she hates me? What if my boyfriend becomes furious? What words could I write that would mean a lick to an incredibly sick girl?

I settled upon something lame: Peace and love, beautiful.

Moments later: Who’s this?

My stomach dropped. Why did I think it was OK to contact her? Drew’s gonna kill me! Or I’ll die of embarrassment first. Where did I get the nerve to drop into someone’s world without anyone’s permission? What am I doing?

I considered a “never mind” or “wrong number” but this strange exploit felt OK, although entirely inappropriate.

After an eternity, I finally responded, “Brenda. I stole your number a while back in a moment of insecurity. I feel like a huge weirdo texting you but Drew told me your situation and now I feel so intrusive but you’re so gorgeous and I pray all the best for you through this.” *SEND*

“Ah! I just sent that!” I yelled aloud. I felt like such an idiot.

Moments later my phone beeped. It was she. Stunningly: Wow u r special. It doesn’t look good 4 me tho. They said I only have 2 plus weeks. It’s scary but its life. Thank u 4 this. It actually means a lot…”

I read “2 plus weeks” and didn’t hesitate. “Hello,” a breathy, weak voice greeted.

Tears filled my eyes. “Um. I am being so inappropriate, I’m so sorry. I, well, I stole your number like I was tough…you’re just so beautiful and intimidating it made me nervous, but I was never gonna use it…but I still had it…and now I’m using it…I, um…”

Looking back, I regret stealing her number. My actions made my emotional feat a covert and underhanded one, even though I did have the best intentions. Honestly, I didn’t have any motives at all besides an incredible fear that she may be scared. I didn’t think I could cure it or pray her though her final moments, but I do sincerely believe in an afterlife with Jesus. I would never shove it down anyone’s throat, but I couldn’t know a girl was out there dying afraid. I wanted to at least let her know there’s total strangers loving and praying for her, no matter how irrational my actions seemed.

We spoke for a long while and exchanged things that belong to her heart alone, and therefore need not be typed. She sounded afraid, and above all, exhausted. I told her that I believe in miracles and am more than willing to believe in one for her.

I cannot pretend to be all high and mighty or that I had the honor of knowing this stunning girl. She invited me to spend time with her in these potentially final, cherished moments.

Last night, as I called her “beautiful” she laughed again. “Not anymore. I was beautiful; not anymore.” At that moment, the terrible nickname”Bertha” died and I was so appalled that I’d envied her enough to wish her ugly. I was so appalled.

Her name is Sophie and it means wisdom.

Let’s pray she walks, runs, and dances again. Yet, if not, that she departs void of pain or guilt and is full of the wisdom that God is ready to take her in His mighty arms for an eternity.