"All the world is a stage, " and the stage is an odd place.
First, you have to think you are good enough to be on a stage. You have to publicly admit you think you are good enough by even stepping on a stage.
You don't know if other people think so too, so you have to bare your soul without knowing how you will be received.
Everyone is kind and gushing at open mikes when you are paying your dues and suck.
The slicers and dicers come later when you are a taller Poppy.
All the world is a critic who can slap you down but good.
They get to autopsy your soul, critique, jeer and be uplifted without breaking a sweat.
The critics never have to step on wooden stages and bare their souls.
They can help you or help you crumble.
If the taller Poppy survives, then you win a double-edged sword.
You win money so you can do what you do without worrying about dinner, sure, but you also gain something worse than the slicers and dicers of yesterday.
You suddenly have an entourage of smiling, ingratiating stealers of souls and you will never again know who is truly your friend. They love you so much, they stalk and hound you, and sometimes kill you.
They love you so much they wouldn't change a hair on your head.
They'd rather stuff you and put you on display than for you to change a single hair on your own head.
I've not been there of course, but if I proceed this could be me.
The critics scoff: "Oh, yeah. Right. As if."
But your heroes are flesh and blood. They squat and smell if they are unwashed. No one thought they were anything until you caught the bandwagon and thought they were everything to shake and shiver to.
I don't seek fame, but it might find me yet.
I just want my dinner, and I am very, very curious about how far a Nothing Girl can go.
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