Nine writers recount their search — and what they found

F

rom the age of seven, when anyone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my standard answer was “an actress.” I’d been performing from the time I could talk: reciting Kiddush from age two at the Shabbos table while standing on my chair, singing at my grandparents’ summer camp for seniors in upstate New York, and making up plays with my friends at playdates.

My first formal role, at seven years old, as Sleeping Beauty in a camp production, secured my dedication to the acting world. The thrill of transforming into another character and another life, and the attention I got from the director and my peers, all of it gave me a heady feeling of excitement and satisfaction — I was special and unique.

Throughout grade school and high school, acting became a safe haven for me in a storm of academic and social challenges. Never a top student academically or particularly popular, I felt like a persona non grata at my pluralistic Jewish school. But my low self-esteem rose when my classmates referred to me as “the actress.” I became queen of extracurricular activities, taking classes in singing, acting, and all forms of dancing — jazz, ballet, hip-hop — becoming, as they say in the business, a “triple threat.”

Summers were devoted to performing arts camps, many whose acceptance was contingent on auditions, which culminated in a play at the end of the session.