When I started acting at age 9, my ignorant bliss was magical. I had no idea I was getting paid, competition never crossed my mind, and the pressures of “work” were nonexistent. Working hours in a studio, playing dress-up, and entertaining a studio audience was so much fun, it never felt like anything but play. When I waited in an audition room for casting to call my name, I wondered why other little girls even showed up—the part was mine. The insecurities and vanity of being a teenager hadn’t hit me yet and the inevitable rejection didn’t faze me. Now, at 18, I think of that younger girl when I can’t get my hair just right, when I don’t feel good enough, when the gorgeous girl reading for the same role reminds me I’m just a mere mortal, when I’m impatient, when the casting director says, “That’s enough,” and when I don’t get the phone call I wanted.
It’s not necessary to love every part of the process, but it is important to admire it and respect it, from the vulnerable and shaky audition to the joyous booking, the precarious filming, and the anticipated final piece all stitched together for viewing pleasure. This sometimes fruitful, often
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