When the curtain parts, I sweep onstage with the haughtiness befitting a Wicked Witch, cape flowing behind me. My nails are cruel and curved, and they bring me many an opportunity to point, curling and uncurling my fingers artistically. When the curtain call music begins, I glide onstage again, but this time it’s bittersweet. A single tear track down my green makeup reveals my flushed cheek. And my black-lined eyes are filled with tears that await their cue to fall. I join hands with my fellow actors and take a bow. This show ends tonight, but I know we’ll see each other again. The music makes a final, sweeping flourish, and the lights dim. 

This final moment was the result of months of preparation. Rehearsals, improv games, tech theater work: all of these experiences led our cast to that moment. And with every show, I have an ever-growing sense of appreciation for the work that brings a show to life. I’ve been participating in productions at my acting studio for three years, and I can’t imagine my life without theatre or the incredible community I’ve built. I’ve learned to think on my feet, make intentional choices when onstage, and, most of all, act with emotionally charged purpose.  

Sitting at my jewelry bench in the metalsmithing studio, I spread out my sketches. I smile, reveling in the choices before me, and after much deliberation, end up with a drawing of a ring engraved with vines. A clatter on the floor behind me grabs my attention and I turn to see a sheepishly grinning Ainsley, the girl who also works at the jewelry studio on Mondays. I return her grin and get up from my workbench to help her pick up the items she’d dropped. She always insists on carrying all her supplies in one trip from her car, and more often than not, at least a few pieces wind up on the floor. I hold her smiling gaze for a moment more, and we both burst out laughing. We exchange a few teasing remarks and tell each other about the pieces we’re working on today. She’s trying her hand at casting a pendant she carved from wax last week, and as we sit at our respective workbenches, Lynn walks through the doorway, her cat, Houdini, weaving around her legs to claim her sunbathing spot on the empty bench next to mine. We all settle in for a day of work. 

Lynn is not only our metalsmithing teacher, she’s also one of the best teachers I’ve ever had the chance to learn from. She explains techniques with infinite patience and doesn’t hesitate to answer a question. Take, for instance, the first piece I made, a ring. Copper with a turquoise stone in a bezel setting. As might be expected in a new craft, I messed up about a million times, especially with that pesky bezel setting. But Lynn walked me through the steps at the perfect speed, pausing anytime I had a question or was unsure about the process. I think I’ll always be a little apprehensive of using the blowtorch, but I’m so glad I gathered up my courage and gave it a try—despite that initial frightening flame, the blowtorch really is one of the most useful tools of the trade. I’ve learned to look at a piece and really assess what needs to be done next, something I struggled with when I was first starting out. And I’ve learned the joy of creation—of taking a piece of art that only existed in my head, bringing it to life, and then, best of all, seeing it rest beautifully on someone’s hand.  

It might look like I’m under the covers, curled up with a book, but I’m really on a boat, the sea speckling my face, tilting my head up and squinting in the bright sun to take in the familiar mountainous terrain in the distance. My favorite books have always made me a world traveler, whether I’m walking along the darkening Dublin streets of Skulduggery Pleasant or carefully creeping through the halls of Hiraeth, that deliciously dangerous crumbling manor home of A Study In Drowning. However, these stories I hold close to me have also made me a time traveler, from the famously chaotic golden splendor of the summer parties hosted by a mysterious Mr. Gatsby in the Roaring Twenties to the quiet, suspiciously unassuming villages from the fabulously well-written Miss Marple series, of which I am so terribly fond. 

All these worlds I’ve visited led me—with an outstretched and beckoning hand—to writing. Creating my own beautifully flawed characters to throw into a story, and let them be. It’s almost as if they’re writing their own stories, and I just perform the action of putting their words and surroundings to paper, or, more recently, a computer screen. Whether I’m weaving vengeful ghosts into a story about a haunted manor or crafting a particularly wicked plot twist, writing has helped me better understand the world around me.  As a writer, I get to step into my characters’ minds and see the world the way they would. And nothing gives you a better sense of walking in someone else’s shoes than to write that journey yourself.

In the past couple of years, I’ve discovered that feeding my brain doesn’t always have to mean textbooks and tests. Of course, textbooks can teach you quite a bit, but when I think of feeding my brain, I think of striding onto the stage at Burning Coal Theatre or sitting at my workbench, blowtorch blazing, as I lean over a piece of sterling silver slowly turning into a ring. I think of leaping from world to world between the well-worn pages of books, and—even better—I think of the power at my fingertips to create a world entirely my own. And the more I explore these passions, the more determined I am to continue a life filled with this kind of learning.