For Her Part, Actress Plays Audition Odds

The role is wrong for me. A stupid mistake. Annie is 35, and British -- I can't pull that off. I'm cheating. But so is she. By God, we are as one, Annie and I.

There are plenty of audition advice books, and none is as useful as auditioning itself, over and over, until the whole process, like a monologue, is clutched in your subconscious. But nothing can really prevent you from doing stupid things with your hands. The stupid things I always want to do with my hands are grabbing fistfuls of my clothing ("the toddler") and the repetitive whipping about of my lower arms, for emphasis ("the sea lion"). Auditors and audiences dislike these maneuvers. I strongly advise against using monologues of toddler and sea lion characters, no matter what pathos you are able to infuse.

I have no idea if I managed to avoid these pitfalls. Inhabiting an audition makes it incredibly difficult to be aware of your own vocal resonance, the crispness of your consonants, whether or not you upwardly inflect your penultimate phrase the way you decided, in the gazebo, would be so much more poignant, or what your hands are doing. When you finish and say "Thank you," you are not yet in control enough to project the poise of Rachel rather than the defiant bewilderment of Annie. You are certain you said "Thank you" with defiant bewilderment, whatever that is. But maybe that's good.

Afterward, my two audition buddies and I ripped ourselves apart. We had messed up the words -- we were pretty sure we had seen the realization that we messed up the words ripple through the audience like a shock wave. We were too sedate. Oh, God, you guys, what if I mumbled? Oh, God.

As we exited the theater and hit the sunny streets of Bethesda wearing too much eye makeup, we couldn't believe we'd worked so hard at the not-so-important parts, and let ourselves completely blow -- yes, we had now decided, we completely blew -- the important part. I was bemoaning the utter lack of feedback I felt when I suddenly recalled the aftermath of the bewildered seconds at the very end. Right after I said "Thank you," there was a murmur. A distinct murmur from the auditors.

Well, what could the murmur mean?

"She is clearly completely bewildered and lacks the poise and grace to smile at us."

Or it could mean nothing. Merely, "Another audition over."

Or, "Another résumé for the woodchipper."

Or it could have been "That's the one."

Or it could have a phantom sound, entirely in my own head, the rush of anxiety returning.

Or it could have been "That's the one."

Rachel Manteuffel is a senior at the College William and Mary. She's still waiting for callbacks.