Last night, I went to see Wicked the Musical. Since it was a week-night and we had a toddler bedtime and my husband’s work the next day to consider, Mike suggested I go with someone else. I called my friend Genevieve, who I used to see regularly when we were both still competing at the Austin Poetry Slam. We both stopped competing around the same time. I got pregnant then she got a job as a campaign manager, which turned into another high-powered, lots-of- hours type job. Our life paths seemed to be diverging and I didn’t want to look up one day and find we had completely lost sight of one another. I didn’t even know if she liked musicals, but asked her anyway, figuring she’d be someone who knows what it means for someone to be up on stage, performing.  As we walked up to Bass Concert Hall, she confirmed that she does not, in fact, usually like musicals, but figures if any opportunity arrives like a cheap ticket to some cultural event, she should take it.

Our seats were one row apart but I was about ten seats over, so we weren’t close enough to chat as we waited for the show to start. For the first two songs, I was miserable. Why hadn’t I thought to listen to the soundtrack online? How can one enjoy a musical if one hates the music? We had a good view of the stage, but I should have brought my binoculars (not so classy as opera glasses, but they let me watch the actors’ facial expressions). I was goose-pimpled with cold and wishing I had brought the sweater that had seemed like a ridiculous idea in the August heat outside the Antarctic-cold theater. And I was fretting about Gen. Maybe she was hating it as much as I was. Why had I wasted our money? This was supposed to be a mind-opening and inspiring treat. I was out of the house, at night, at the theater.

But at the end of “No Good Deed,” when the actress playing Elphaba belted out the last lines, arms raised, her lone figure spotlit in the center of the stage, I was mesmerized. I still wasn’t thrilled with the music and the story was only so very loosely related to the book I’d enjoyed so much, but I was watching live theater, in the presence of people living out what I imagine are their artistic dreams, performing for huge audiences, courageous enough to stand up there projecting their voices to a silent and rapt audience. I wanted to be them.

Genevieve and I spent the intermission confirming that we’d initially been equally underwhelmed, but that we’d both teared up by the end of the first act. Then we started talking about those performers, then about us performing and how Gen was getting ready to start slamming again. (For a fun explanation of what a poetry slam is, check out this animation of my husband explaining the rules.) What slam is for me is a way to write and perform my own work and get feedback from an audience, not the polite applause of an open mic at some coffee house, not the months-long delay of a print submission that usually comes back with a form rejection or an acceptance that just means more months of waiting to see a poem in print but never hear anyone’s reaction to it. Being on a stage with five random judges chosen from the audience who are going to raise scores saying whether or not they liked my work (and maybe me) is simultaneously nerve-wracking and exhilarating. I can’t get over my compulsion to perform even though I suffer from horrible stage fright.

Elphaba’s outstretched arms, her full-lunged, open-throated, risk-taking performance was inspiring. It made me miss that part of my life, made me think about peforming. I don’t know if I want to compete to try to get on a team, or just go out every once in awhile to get my work in front of an audience, or maybe finally write and produce the one woman show I’ve been thinking about for years, but I want to be up there again. I’m ready.