Fifteen years ago.

I was just 15, starting along a path which is only now revealing itself to me. I don’t remember what caught my attention exactly, I remember only the uncomfortable chair in the high school library, the doubt and insecurity and the strangers’ eyes trying to discern my purpose for sitting there.

I was no actor. My glasses were whatever was on sale that week, large and squarish, but not in the heavy black style which is popular today. My face was awkwardly soft and boyish and my hair fell like blonde thread across it. My T-shirt probably had a Tasmanian Devil on it and it was my best shirt. Actors were stylish and proud and moreso popular; I was clearly none of these.

But there were going to be swords, I had heard. Every year, the high school held a Madrigal dinner, and they were looking for students who wanted to be fencers. I had never touched a sword that wasn’t made of plastic or wood, but I had been to the Bristol Renaissance Faire once or twice.

There I had glimpsed something wonderful. Some of the performers were terrible, of course, tired college students who just wanted a job where their piercings and pot-smoking would go unpunished. But the others, they were more than improvisational actors, but a channel into the human psyche. It didn’t matter what they said or how or when, just that they were attempting to bring people into a life not their own. It was soul escape, no more tethers to the miseries and trappings of modern life. To put it less poetically, I had caught the acting bug.

But, I still wouldn’t let myself be entirely sure. Despite invitations to join the Drama Club and Forensics, I remained focused on other less appealing pastimes. I became a recluse creatively, staying far from bold pursuits and turning to scribbled poetry and the occasional short story, afraid to be only mildly talented. I played in role-playing games where acting was somewhat frowned upon, a methodone for the heroin of the spotlight. I wrote and performed scripts in my head for characters larger-than-life, and I read aloud wherever I could find some place secluded.

The fencers welcomed me, albeit hesitantly, into their fold. There were the actors, of course, and the sport fencers. But I was a D&D nerd. I just happened to have a little better hygiene, a little more charm, and a little more natural physical ability than the stereotype. There were other people new to it, and I was paired with one of these. Fencing quickly became my favorite extracurricular activity. I poured more energy into it than I had ever done for football or even writing or role-playing.

So enthusiastically did I perform that I was offered a comic speaking role despite my being a sophomore (the equivalent of a freshman at my school). It reminded me of the previous year when I had auditioned for Macbeth in a whirlwind tour of Shakespeare’s plays for the 9th Grade Elizabethan Festival. They had no one reading for Petruchio, so I stood in for him before my audition. They gave me the part immediately and I never auditioned for the Scottish play. I played opposite 3 different Kates, as luck would have it, and received high praise for the part. Even then, I somehow believed it was not for me.

For my sophomore year of fencing, I performed my first stunt. My character, an unnamed henchman to a Napoleonic and melodramatic villain, was to rush into the hall during a megalomaniacal speech to announce the approach of the guards. As I reached the center of the aisle, I was to fall on my face and frantically warn my mistress of our impending capture. I did so without much training, flailing and getting no small amount of rugburn in the process.

We were invited to perform the show in Madison, “competing” against other high school Madrigal dinner productions. The exact nature of the competition is still unclear to me; all that mattered was another chance to perform and to a different audience. Saturday, while I waited for the bus to take me to Madison, my little sister popped a new video into the VCR. It was Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. The opening sequence had animation so vibrant and alive, I was sucked in from the moment David Ogden Stiers began his narration.

In my head, I mimicked the booming baritone and dreamed of a crowd before me. Though much of that trip to Madison is now a pubescent blur of fumbled foreplay and infatuation, distinct is the feeling that I belonged. The proper word for a group of me is troupe.

Many years and many mistakes followed. Through college and beyond, I stifled hopes of applause and buried my head in studying English (which I read aloud in my room). I continued to assist with the fencing troupe, eventually attaining a position as head instructor. I wrote myself into scripts and created a returning character as payment for the volunteer position. I taught acting the way I understood it, and it seemed to resonate in my students; from my enthusiasm came theirs and the process became reciprocal, only fueling me further.

But I cast doubt on myself. I was mostly self-taught. Who was I to guide these burgeoning actors? I needed validation of some kind. I put my considerable web research skills to use and found the Society of American Fight Directors. They claimed to be the nation’s foremost experts, teaching safe stage combat to students around the U.S. And one month after the Madrigal Feaste in 2005 – the tenth year I had been in charge of the fencers – they were having a large workshop in Chicago.

I hesitated for days, leaving the web page open. Finally, I paid my $300, arranged to stay with my good friend, Bjorn, and signed myself up as a beginner. I was not certain at the time whether anything I had done in the past ten years, including martial arts training, was of any value. While I wanted to be humble, I also did not want to sell myself short.

In three days as a beginner, I learned everything I needed to know. I had not become an expert in stage combat, not by any means. The workshop gave me a taste of success, a thirst for knowledge, and most importantly, ambition. I had never had ambition. When I returned home, I vowed, even in my state of debt and uncertainty, that I would attend the summer workshop in Las Vegas and earn some proficiency and standing in the organization and in the community that I now wanted to join. With reserve but with resolve, I would become an actor.

One year after my first Winter Wonderland Workshop, I auditioned for the musical theater adaptation of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. The Lakeland Players of Elkhorn manufactured a reality from my long-standing fantasy. I narrated, I sang and danced and fought as Gaston, and I finally took the first step of the journey of my adult life.