I’m next. I’m standing alone in a narrow hallway, waiting to hear my name. My veins feel like they’ve turned into electric eels; superhuman currents of energy pulse through me, making me sick. “Maria Vorhis? Right this way” A fat man guides me down the hall, through a set of doors. I see the stage in front of me. I have arrived. As I walk down the flight of stairs, familiar faces pierce through me.  I make it to the stage. The fat man bellows, “You may begin!”  I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. I’m speechless, literally.  I search for the first word, reminding myself how much I’ve rehearsed, how I could not be more ready. By some miracle, the words appear. I’m in the middle of my second line when all hell breaks loose. Suddenly I am accosted from both sides by a troupe of wild chimpanzees in clown suits. I must go on—it’s part of the audition.

Thankfully I wake up before I commit some heinous crime that PETA would undoubtedly crucify me for. It’s two a.m., the night before I must actually take the stage.  It should come as no surprise that I still feel this way. The terror that gripped me at fifteen-years-old when I auditioned for my first play has now become something familiar, a necessary appendage. But why? Even a chimp would have to beg the question: if I am so terrified of acting, why not find something else? And here’s the rub: All the reasons I love acting are annoyingly the same ones that make me despise it. Attempting to disentangle the fear, joy, anxiety, and excitement of acting is like ordering a supreme pizza without cheese. Without fear and anxiety, the excitement and joy onstage do not burn nearly as bright; and everyone knows that without cheese, there will be no pizza.

If I could somehow train myself to love rocks, to become passionate about computer programming, to be dazzled by Pythagorean’s Theorem, believe me, I would. But I love theatre.

At two a.m., when I’m completely honest with myself, I’m terrified that I’ll pick up “Quantum Physics for Dummies”, or begin tackling the global water crisis – anything to separate me from what I love. Because anything-even solving world hunger- is easier than pursuing what I want. Author and everyday warrior, Stephen Pressfield, combats this subject in his book, The War of Art. He writes, “Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.” Pressfield warns, “Resistance will tell you anything to keep you from doing your work.” Resistance is my constant companion. I wake up in the morning, telling myself I’ll study my lines for a half an hour before breakfast. I get out of bed, put the tea kettle on, and already resistance has won. I’m distracted by other tasks; my script gathers dust, and I tell myself the all too familiar lie- I’ll do it tomorrow.

So how have artists before us defeated Resistance? Do they, too, hear the seductive call of foreign professions in the middle of the night? What about their art do they love and fear? With this blog my goal is to share the stories of Hancher and local artists, in order to understand how living the life imagined is not only possible, but with determination and a little pizzazz, probable.