I try to imagine a world wherein a parent might be pleased to hear his child was interested in theatre. Maybe if everyone worked for a company like Footsbarn and Theatre was the Family Business and therefore being interested in theatre meant staying in the fold, maybe that would be good news.
If I had a child and he or she let me know that theatre was his or her calling, I’m pretty sure I would sigh deeply. Because there would be some inevitability in that interest probably. Probably the love for it would travel through my genes and into anyone I passed them to, no matter how much I’d hope otherwise. It would be like passing along an addiction on some level. You’d understand why this thing has a powerful hold on someone and also recognize how powerless anyone would be to stop it.
Did my own parents ruefully watch my love affair with theatre unfold? Were they constantly hoping I’d come to my senses? Are they still?
It’s too late. There can be no intervention. I’ve hit bottom many times over and yet I keep coming back for more. I’m lost to the art forever.
The Hamlet Project 