The Power of the Audience

Feedback is Essential

In late August 1986, when I was a sophomore in college, I went to the registrar’s office to do some financial paperwork related to my scholarship. When I left, I walked by the rear doors of the performing arts center.

Theater had always interested me. I loved watching it — the costumes, the characters, the energy of a live performance. But it was never something I imagined myself doing. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a passing ambition.

But there, taped to the wooden door, was a flyer for auditions: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma! Normally, I would have walked right by. But it caught my eye for two reasons: my parents, and my birthday.

Back in 1961, my parents went to a one-year program in Boston at the Carnegie Institute of Medical Technology to become licensed MT’s. (This was the year before Sophia Clark, a student at the same institution, was killed by the Boston Strangler).

Anyway, my parents went on their first date to see Oklahoma! in a movie theater that same year. And the University of Maine’s 1986 production was scheduled to open on my 20th birthday.

So I thought, why not audition? Just for fun. I could sing a little, but I wasn’t trained, and I certainly didn’t consider myself “good.” Still, maybe I could land a role as an extra, or even help backstage. Then I could invite my parents to see the play that opened on my birthday. I thought it would be a cool little trip down memory lane for them.

I never expected to get the lead.

I had never acted before in my life. But I remember what my dad told me after the show: that it felt like a quaint college production — until I stepped into the spotlight from stage left and started singing Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.

He said the entire audience sat up straighter, suddenly alert, suddenly aware that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary student performance. People took notice. I took notice. I didn’t know I could sing like that. But apparently, I could.

Thankfully, I had incredible directors who saw something in me and knew how to shape it. I still think fondly of them. Under their guidance, I discovered my chest voice range: from F2 to B♭4.

After that, I kept performing. I became Seymour Krelborn. The Phantom. Curly McLain. Lieutenant Cable. Jean Valjean. Captain von Trapp. Roles I never dreamed I’d be trusted with — and yet somehow, they fit.

By the fall of 1987 — not long after I appeared on Unsolved Mysteries, strangely enough — I was cast as Billy Bigelow in Carousel. But something had shifted by then. I wasn’t auditioning anymore. Directors were choosing musicals to fit my voice. Choosing roles for me. I was just 21 years old.

Each night, when I sang the If I Loved You reprise, I could hear women in the audience crying softly. I could see tears on the faces of men, at least in the first few rows — as far as the lights allowed.

I didn’t need that validation to feel whole. But I absolutely drew energy from it. The audience was like an Energizer battery for me. When I felt them responding, I rose to meet it. I gave more, and somehow had more to give.

My performance the next night was even better, because I had learned how to tap into that current — how to let their energy feed mine, and send it right back to them. It became a kind of feedback loop. It grew.

Those days of performance are long behind me now. But that’s what I want my writing to do.

I want it to evoke that same kind of response. That same kind of energy. That same kind of power. Not because I need applause — but because I want to feel the resonance. I want to know the words are reaching someone.

Even now, when I read the final chapter of my novel — despite having read it a hundred times — I still tear up.

And what I want, more than anything, is to know that my readers feel it too.

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