Jamie Broker

It’s the end of the school year and that means big awards ceremonies and parties and recognitions and so forth. In my area of the world, there was recently a big celebration of high school musical theatre. Spouse and I attended, and it was a fantastic time. The problem is that the Muse snuck up behind me and clubbed me over the head with an idea for writing a musical, and that sucker had barbs on it, and those barbs are now embedded in my brain.

Theatre is a wonderful thing, and I loved participating in it when I was younger. (I imagine I still would, but most of the adult theatre opportunities in my area have very inconvenient rehearsal and performance times, so it never seems to work out.) There’s something even more special about musicals, something so human and magical and sacred (literally so, to the ancient Greeks, and still to some modern folks) that it defies description. The idea of trying to step into that sphere is daunting. Someday maybe I’ll post about my experiences with the abusive underbelly of the performing arts (though just as likely not; there are many whose voices are more important than mine in that conversation). More to the point, I’m not one of those folks who loves art in isolation. If I pour my soul into something, even if it’s silly, I very often need to share it. The idea of writing a musical, knowing it will sit on a hard drive or in a forgotten draw forever, with no one even looking it over, is unpleasant to me. I probably need to unpack that in therapy.

Nevertheless, the Muse has chosen to inflict her cruel demands upon me, so I guess maybe I’ll spend summer working on that. It’s good to stretch yourself, I suppose, and it’s an excellent excuse to watch a lot of musical theatre live and to buy more books (the horror)!