Alexandra Mariano's Writing Portfolio by Alexandra Mariano

Writing and Editing amariano@rollins.edu

407-506-3571 8322 Caracas Avenue Orlando, FL 32825

Alexandra Joana Mariano Honors English Major Pursuing a Career in Story Crafting Alexandra Mariano grew up in Orlando, Florida. She has a strong Portuguese heritage and limited fluency in the language. Her loved ones mean the world to her, and words are her passion. Coming from a background of technical theater in high school, she currently attends Rollins College where she’s enrolled in the honors program. She majors in English and double-minors in Creative Writing and French. Her heart’s desire lies with bringing inspired words closer to every kind of reader imaginable—from the classical literature enthusiast to the more formal academic. To accomplish this goal, she works as Head Copy Editor for her college’s newspaper as well as an editor her college’s literary journal. Additionally, she works as an editorial assistant for the academic journal Agricultural History.

Contents Résumé................................. 3 Fiction Sample....................... 4 Children’s Writing Samples .... 6

Alexandra is looking for every opportunity to hone and showcase her writing while aiding in the publication process of other great written works. All consideration is an honor, and she appreciates it tremendously. She can always be contacted by e-mail at amariano@rollins.edu or by cell-phone at 407-506-3571.

Screenwriting Sample ............ 8 Poetry Samples ..................... 10 Creative Nonfiction Sample ... 12 Journalism Samples .............. 14

amariano@rollins.edu

“There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate’s loot on Treasure Island.”—Walt Disney

“Everyone should be able to do one card trick, tell two jokes, and recite three poems, in case they are ever trapped in an elevator.” —Lemony Snicket

“We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are.” —Anthony Marra

amariano@rollins.edu

Alexandra Joana Mariano Education Candidate for Honors Bachelor of Arts in English | Rollins College | Winter Park, FL | expected May 2017  Double Minor in French and Creative Writing with a 3.8 GPA on a 4.0 scale  Inducted member of the English Honor Society Sigma Tau Delta  Relevant coursework: Language Studies, Screenwriting, Writing Books for Children, Playwriting, Using Excel

Relevant Experience Brushing | Annual Student Art and Literary Journal | Rollins College | Winter Park, FL Editor (November 2014 – Present)  Edit short stories, essays, and poems for general spelling and grammar before a bi-weekly deadline  Provide thoughtful feedback to accepted writers  Advertise as well as encourage journal submissions through organized on-campus events and social media The Sandspur | Weekly Student Newspaper | Rollins College | Winter Park, FL Head Copy Editor (August 2014 – Present)  Organize the newspaper’s unedited and edited articles on Google Docs  Perform final read-throughs for Associated Press style, grammar, and accuracy before the paper is sent to press  Submit occasional freelance articles (16 of which have been published either online or in print) Copy Editor (January – April 2014) Agricultural History | Quarterly International Academic Journal | Winter Park, FL Editorial Assistant (August 2014 – April 2015)  Edit 2-3 articles and their endnotes per issue for Chicago style, grammar, consistency, and accuracy  Order cited texts through World Cat and Inter Library Loan; browse microfilm for cited newspaper articles  Critically comment on any ambiguities; scan and copy source texts; upkeep records on SharePoint Winter With the Writers | Annual Literary Festival | Rollins College | Winter Park, FL Intern (January – March 2015)  Generate public interest and engage in literary conversations via Facebook  Market through distributing posters and ordering custom souvenir pencils  Provide hospitality for authors through gift-giving and escorts; usher for the authors’ readings  Have original writing publicly critiqued by esteemed authors Sapphire, Malena Mörling, Katie Farris, and Amy Bloom

Skills and Aptitudes   

Conversant in Intermediate French and Elementary Portuguese Proficient in Final Draft, Microsoft Word, Outlook, OneNote, and PowerPoint Competent with social media such as Facebook, Instagram, WordPress, and Tumblr

amariano@rollins.edu

“Bike Night” | Fiction “Bike Night”

Adalie Beaumont was born inside of four wheels. It was just after her eighteenth birthday when she decided to rebel. Cars wreaked havoc. They were oily, bulky, cacophonous metal contraptions that monopolized the streets and cared about little besides their simulated inner environment and the final destination. Bicycles were light, agile. They only produced the trance-inducing sound of the tires repeatedly overcoming the static friction of the pavement, which is a more or less muted noise when the blood rushing through your veins is more immediate. Not trapped within a cage, one could soak up the beauty of nature without having to tarnish it with fuel exhaust. When Adalie was just eleven years old, she had heard news that her estranged grandparents on her father’s side were knocked off of a bridge by a foreign vehicle that had spiraled out of control. This had first turned her off to the idea of cars. She had also heard somewhere that every two seconds a person dies in a car crash. At this point in time, though, there was not a speck of gloom in the sky. The way she liked it best. Adalie had nearly reached mastery of the skill of bicycling. This was one of her daily twenty-six mile rides in the heat of July. The water vapor hung thick in the air, trying to break through her resolve as she forcefully pedaled her way up an overpass—the only hill for miles. Perspiration pooled in her crevices and streamed down her body’s contours. The creamy skin of her arms had begun to prickle with splotches of heated rose. Her head was tucked down to maximize wind resistance, and strands of dark mahogany hair stuck to her cheeks, her cowlicks embracing their full potential in the wind that was making impact at twenty-two miles per hour. Any passerby might have lingered on her lean figure and taught muscles, but Adalie would not have even

glanced over in return. To her, the real beauty was underneath her: the best specialty women’s bicycle that her high school graduation money could have afforded—a 2009 seafoam green Windsor Willow, a 24-speed road bike with a classy yet sleek aluminum frame. She would not, could not, lose control with this vehicle. The seat dug into her skin and her calves ached from the effort, but she didn’t care. She knew that with every full rotation of the tires, she was making progress. Filling her lungs to their capacity. Shedding inefficient body mass. Enforcing her means of riding farther and farther. Faster and faster. She rounded the final corner, slowed her pace, and came to a stop in front of the white garage door of her suburban, middle-class house. She leaned her Willow against the laurel oak tree to the left of her driveway, squinted upwards at the cloudless sky, took three small steps, and then lay down. Her back crushed the delicate blades of grass. She stretched out her arms, digging her fingertips into the earth, feeling it.

A large breath escaped her lips as her body began its cool down process: expanding and contracting lungs, decelerating heart rate, evaporating sweat and lowering body temperature. The moment she could physiologically relax was also the moment she became mentally tense; reality awaited her. It wasn’t so great to be back under someone else’s jurisdiction after having had her first year away at college. “Beaumont? What’re you doing?” She recognized the voice. It was Ronnie, the neighbor boy: twenty-one and tantalizing. Adalie knew full well that if she turned her head she would see his shaggy coal black hair, chocolate eyes, tanned arms, and white smile. He had always been right next door. Amiable. Close enough to be admired. Far enough away during the school year where she had no real desire to instigate anything further.

“Bike Night” | Fiction

amariano@rollins.edu

She covered her face with one arm and let out a playful groan. Ronnie laughed. She felt his long shadow fall across her. “Looks like you just got done doing some serious work, Beau.” “Yeah, more than you do in a week, Peligro.” Peligro was what all his friends called him. Adalie wasn’t entirely positive if it was just a nickname or his surname, but she threaded as much snark into the word as she could muster. Ronnie chuckled again at her feeble quip. She offered her hand and he took it, pulling her to her feet. Adalie was tall, but still only came up to the brim of his nose. Hastily, she turned away from him, trying to conceal a spreading blush. “Just got back from a ride, huh?” “My best one of the summer.” She gave her attention back to him and saw that he was grinning. “Let me take you out on a real ride.” She let out a legitimate groan this time. “No way.” “Come on! It’s still two wheels.” Ronnie was referring to his motorcycle: a silver Yamaha FZ whatever. He had picked it up from a dealer on the outskirts of town three weeks earlier and had been bugging Adalie to be his passenger for a trip around the block ever since. As much as she fancied the idea of being into him, she was not into his “bike.” It was too synthetic. It relied too heavily on the machine, not the individual. “Ix nay.” He stuck out his bottom lip in a subjectively adorable pout. Adalie’s resolve melted a little—but only slightly.

She crossed her arms and refused to break his pleading gaze. “Well…” he began to concede, leaning marginally closer towards her. “If you won’t take a ride on FZ, then at least come with me to this party tomorrow tonight. It’s the least you can do for rejecting my stallion.” Adalie’s breathing skipped a beat. The tension in her muscles slacked. An airy laugh creaked out of her throat. “I don’t know, Peligro. Thursday is my bike night. I like to stay committed to my midnight rides.” Ronnie snorted, but Adalie wasn’t entirely joking around. There was something beguiling about the moonlit streets, the cooler air, and the absence of traffic that serenaded her soul. “No worries, Beau. We can have you out of there by midnight. You’ll be my own kind of Cinderella. Just… come? It’s down the street a ways—we can walk there. No wheels involved.” Well, Ronnie had perfectly civil to her over the years. And it would be her first real party since last summer. Trying to achieve perfection on homework and exams took up any time she wasn’t bicycling during the school year. Adalie chewed on his proposition for about seven seconds. “Alright, fine. It sounds like it could be fun.” She smiled. Ronnie beamed. He gave her a small hug from the side before going sauntering back into his garage. Closing her eyelids, Adalie could feel the hum of her heartbeat pulsating all the way down to the tips of her toes. No longer able to perceive the musk of his body or his rays of positive energy, Adalie’s hesitation sunk in a few minutes too late.

amariano@rollins.edu

“I’m Saving Up for College” | Writing for Children “I’m Saving Up for College”

Hello. My name is Lucy. Would you like to buy some lemonade? One glass is only a quarter. I’m saving up for College. I know all about College. You don’t believe me? I hear my older sister and her best friend talking about it all the time. That means I’m an expert. In College, all the boys are supposed to be something called “Kuh-yoot” (I hope that means they’re still funny). In College, you trade all your best toys just to get your books. In College, you use books as pillows so the words can enter your brain while you sleep. In College, your bedrooms are closets that shrink every time you buy something new In College, you stop drinking milk to have this black stuff called “Kaw-fee” (it’s supposed to give you super powers). In College, all the teachers are doctors. In College, you sit in the parking lot for sport games instead of going inside the stadium. In College, you wear your pajamas to class if you feel like it. In College, you only write a few essays a year because after one your hand falls off (and you really need the time to recover). In College, you actually like having nap time. In College, calculators are really spy tools used to send code messages to your friends. In College, noodles magically become everyone’s favorite food. In College, you battle with these monsters called “Finals” at the end of the year (and you can only win if you don’t sleep at all the night before). Wait, where are you going? Don’t you want to hear more about College? I think you dropped a quarter. Is this for me? Thank you! Excuse me, sir? Hello. My name is Lucy. Would you like to buy some lemonade? One glass is only a quarter.

“The Pumpkin Patch” | Writing for Children

amariano@rollins.edu

“The Pumpkin Patch” I had really, definitely made Demeter mad. To be fair, I didn’t know it was her. It’s not really nice that gods and goddesses get to parade around being whomever and whatever they please without out any sort of warning first. So I was at the county festival with my fiancé. There was this huge (and I mean huge) pumpkin. My fiancé, a farmer-to-be, said it was the most beautiful pumpkin he ever saw. He raved on and on about how it was the best candidate for the blue ribbon. I said it was fat and way too bumpy.

That’s when IT happened. The fat pumpkin turned into a gorgeous not-quite woman. “I AM DEMETER,” she boomed. “GODDESS OF DESOLATE WINTERS AND BOUNTIFUL HARVESTS.” “Well,” my fiancé whispered to me, “She’s not actually fat at all.” “THAT’S RIGHT,” said Demeter. I found out later from some sprite or something that she was extra mad because her daughter was off romping around in the underworld doting on some handsome daredevil and his pomegranate.

My fiancé was only a handsome farmer-to-be. So Demeter turned me into a mountain of dried corn husks—sort of as if someone had decided he liked pesky birds and ripped all of the stuffing out of a scarecrow and then just left it sitting in the middle of a county festival. My poor fiancé was devastated. Demeter, however, was long gone (and with her blue ribbon, too) before he even had a chance to protest. The festival officials couldn’t seem to budge me, so they had to relocate the whole shebang elsewhere. My poor fiancé, remembering that I hadn’t taken too well to fat and bumpy pumpkins, brought me small and smooth pumpkins each day as tokens of his undying love. Demeter didn’t much like that, so she turned them into fat and bumpy pumpkins each day. The worst part is that no one ever thinks to water me. I’ve been thirsty for weeks.

amariano@rollins.edu

Somewhere Between Naked and Suffocating | Screenwriting

53. EXT. CARNEIRO BACKYARD - ADRIANO’S TREE HOUSE 53. Cassie, 20, is standing at the base of the tree, looking up. Adriano, 7, peeps down at her. On the door to the tree house there is a mediocre “sign” with red flames: GATE OF DOOM. CASSIE Are you sure this is the only way I can be cool? ADRIANO Yep. If you can make it past the Gate of Doom, then you’re definitely someone special. CASSIE Well, okay. Very hesitantly, Cassie grabs onto the first rung on the ladder she can reach. Slowly, she starts making her way up. Halfway there, her foot stumbles, and she almost falls. We FOCUS ON her stomach and the distance toward the ground, but Cassie quickly regains her composure. CASSIE (CONT’D) (to herself) Thank God I’m not a whale yet. ADRIANO You look like kind of like a potbellied pig to me. CASSIE Hey! ADRIANO Those are indigenous to Vietnam, you know. With obvious effort, Cassie finally makes it to the top. She blindly reaches up and pushes open the door before swinging herself up into the tree house. CUT TO: 54. INT. ADRIANO’S TREE HOUSE 54. Cassie is lying on her back, panting. Around her there are bean bag chairs and a small bookshelf. CASSIE I made it. Adriano picks a comic book off of one of the shelves and tosses it at her, it landing somewhat gracefully on her face. ADRIANO You’re not off the hook, yet. Now you need to master the history of the X-Men. FADE TO: 66. INT. CARNEIRO GARAGE - THE NEXT NIGHT 66. Tia Rosa, Tio Rodrigo, Prima Celeste, Primo Sergio, Adriano, and Leo are sit around the table laughing and stuffing their faces with Maria Lara’s aletria. Cassie is smiling and shyly nibbles. Maria Lara looks on, pleased. João is sitting as far away from Cassie as the table allows. ROSA I don’t think you’ll be able to fit into that dress now, Celeste. SERGIO Please. Have you seen the things she puts around her stomach? You know... the Victorian whatchamacallits women used to suffocate from for the sake of beauty? CASSIE Corsets? CELESTE I told you to stay out of my closet. CASSIE What color is the dress, Celeste? ROSA Crimson red! To symbolize a free, wild flower. Am I right, ’Leste? CELESTE Absolutely. Like Anita living out her dreams in A-mer-i-ca. Maria Lara reappears with a cookies and hot chocolate.

Somewhere Between Naked and Suffocating | Screenwriting amariano@rollins.edu MARIA LARA Is it too late for cocoa, anyone? ADRIANO It’s never too late for cocoa! You know that cocoa beans are indigenous to tropical areas? CASSIE How neat, Age. Maria Lara starts filling cups with hot chocolate and passes them around. Rosa takes out a clear jar from her pocket filled with various colored flower petals. ROSA Here, filha. Mix this into your chocolate. It should strengthen your immune system. Rosa pushes the jar toward Cassie. Cassie unscrews the lid and hesitantly peers within. RODRIGO The last time I drank one of your potions, I had the runs for a week. Cassie pushes the jar slightly away from her and gives Maria Lara a look. The two giggle. ROSA That’s what you get for thinking I could cure your baldness! RODRIGO A man can dream. ADRIANO (in a singsong tone) “Dreams that you dreamed of once in a lullaby!” Adriano stands on his chair and bows. Cassie claps. João softens a little at this. JOÃO Adrianinho, why don’t you tell Cassandra your big news? ADRIANO I’m going to be the Tin Man in the summer camp play! CASSIE Wow, that’s such an important role! RODRIGO He’s been singing all of the songs, not just his. CASSIE That’s so wonderful, Age. When is it? MARIA LARA It opens next Friday night at 6. ADRIANO Right! And I’m the star. RODRIGO Not quite, filho. SERGIO He can be the star if he wants to, pai. ADRIANO Cassie, you’ll come, right? CASSIE I’d like to. ADRIANO Really? CASSIE Of course. But I can only maybe make it. I have a subway wedding to shoot and Jennifer wants us to start gathering our portfolios for an evaluation andLEO I’m sure she’ll do her best to make it, little one. João makes eye contact with Leo. Leo looks away. From LEO’S POV we see Cassie politely smiling at Adriano, FOCUSING ON the distance still between them. FADE.

amariano@rollins.edu

Selected Poems

“The travesty” The world was horrified by the boy’s death. On a sticker (on the scissors stuck within his chest), it read: Please, return to circulation desk. “Post high school diploma” College always seemed like a fantasy to me; now, everyday I am living in a cloud. The first night I was pelted by searing chocolate chip pancakes. I loved my body with some plaster, and then ended up crashing my aunt’s car on I-4. My sculpture was in the backseat. Even post disaster, I was still a backseat driver. I’m so glad my parents didn’t hate me, but paying for tickets sucks—and when your car’s back tire blows right outside Tallahassee in a cloud of dirt, and again leaving Tampa. Its plaster will never be quite so new. That spring break chocolate was my friend. At my sister’s 21st, chocolate liquor kept me sleeping in the backseat driving home. Her apartment had no puke plastered on the walls (that I saw). My mom never called me. My boyfriend stored all the pictures on his cloud. This time, nothing happened to the poor car on the road back. Maybe I didn’t deserve a car, but college pushes you beyond chocolate milk; life gets harder than walking on a cloud. I am prone to getting tired, and taking the backseat (metaphorically), letting others take the wheel from me. As the year winds down, I can ignore the plaster on the walls for now; every corridor has blue plaster signs—caps, gowns, career counseling. I reach my car and drive away for three more years. For me, for right now, looking into his chocolate eyes is enough. The future can afford a backseat ticket while I’m trying to turn a hazy cloud into something concrete: not like a cloud of hookah smoke. My friend showcases his plaster leg cast, laughing between puffs, begging for my backseat because (even with a job) he has no car. Now, I am in a place of life where I avoid chocolate. I’m trying, struggling, to build a better me. I’m saving to buy new backseat covers for my car, and studying up to clear the chocolate cloud. Eventually, I will be able to tell the plaster from me.

Selected Poems

amariano@rollins.edu

“Unpublished” I whisper my poem in his ear. He tells me no one else should ever hear the words, he says, that violate his inner soul. That’s pretty fair, I think; after all, our unit as a whole is quite private, and it would not do for one to overhear. At least with no audience, there’s no need for me to shear my words into something more palatable, more clear. He understands perfectly what I ink on my scroll. I whisper that I would die should you disappear and that I hate the stench of ‘fat tire’ beer, except when you kiss me; my wits you stole, but that’s okay, ’cause there’s no other I’d rather roll down hills in Blanchard Park with. I want to forever you endear… I whisper. “Abbey road” driving home the heat seeps in through the cracks of the doors and I impatiently wait for the cars in front of me to come to a stand still and the green lights to catch on fire so that I can perch the new literary journal atop my decaying steering wheel and I find myself wishing for elementary school buses that would taxi me without fare or gas compensation and I could put my knees up on the melting blue plastic in front of me and lose myself in a series about vigilantes turning into animals but no now I have to catch glimpses of a struggling writer in Buffalo losing her spine whenever she gets up to walk away between following cars that drive eight miles under the speed limit and dealing with those who expect me to anticipate their impromptu turns and huzzah the next red light has arrived so I lift up my journal again but something in the top field of my vision catches my eye a movement of some kind it is a burned out cigarette bud with the wind pushing it across the crosswalk and I cannot help but smile as I imagine that the tiny tan cylinder is aspiring to be George Harrison Ringo Starr Paul McCartney or John Lennon we are all dreamers right

amariano@rollins.edu

“Stagecraft” | Creative Nonfiction “Stagecraft”

Many species of paint brushes exist in this world—thin, fat, plastic, metal, for artists, for crafters, and for carpenters. My favorites are the ones used to paint broad, flat surfaces of meticulously cut and sanded pieces of wood: turning a few platforms or a sign or a backdrop into something admirable, into something more. There is a mystical beauty about a paint brush taken straight from the packaging. The soft wooden handle slides smoothly in your grasp, not daring to toy with the idea of splintering. The tapered nylon and polyester bristles are firm, yet pliable, awaiting the instruction of movement from the owner. Every aspect of the untainted brush is just so… flawless. I am aware of how to properly clean a paint brush. The process takes a huge toll on your time. Not only do you have to put it under running water, but you have to keep it there for however long it takes. You must squeeze,

bend, whip around, or whichever method you find that works—all to transform the fountain spewing beneath the once perfect bristles from a murky, diluted concoction into a perfectly translucent waterfall. You can’t leave one speck of paint in the fine hairs, lest it dry and glue together the strands, ruining its utility for the next recipient. After that whole ordeal, you still need to whack the brush against a wall a couple of times to adequately dry the apparatus. I don’t mean wave weakly in a gentle breeze. I mean whack. Full-on slap it against a flat surface, alternating sides, until all hints of moisture have been thoroughly assured that they are no longer welcome. Some people prefer not to deal with the trouble, treating each paint brush as disposable. Not me. Paint brushes carry a sentimental value in my life. They remind me of the many, many hours I spent belaboring upon technical perfection in my high school’s theatre. Acceptance. Belonging. Love. These are all ideals necessary for every individual to attain happiness. It is difficult to find these allegories in the outside world, distanced from your family. My journey for these abstractions didn’t exactly begin with a paint brush, but that’s where I ended up—in a room tucked behind the stage, immersed in a rich atmosphere of saw dust, shrill buzzing and heavy clanks ringing throughout the hall—with a paint brush in my hand as I awaited my turn at the designated paint sink. Like most great paradigm shifts, it wasn’t intentional. Up until the week preceding my freshman year, I had planned high school years filled with the camaraderie of band kids and the melodious booming of my trombone. Halfway through the summer, somewhere between the sweltering agony of the heat and the lack of physical activity in my daily routine, I realized the extent of my disillusionment: band camp was not for me. I shared my grievances with my mother, and she obligingly made a few phone calls, freeing me from a fate of undoubted suffering. Without consulting me, though, she asked the guidance counselors to place me into dsrama class. Approaching the classroom on the first day, I nervously eyed the band room door, took a deep breath, and walked right past it into my alternative elective. There were many never-before-seen faces to take in: the energetic blonde; the thin, closed-off brunette; the aspiring actor, beaming with anticipation; the Puerto Rican girls sharing catty gossip and a few laughs; the stoner, whose ear-length hair and dark gray hoodie screamed of his inconspicuous nonchalance; and, finally, the looming instructor with the dark hair and lovely face, nerves crawling down her spine, faced with only her third year of teaching. Hesitantly, I took a chair with no immediate neighbor. First days at a new school are often when I feel the most miniscule, being compressed by the vast amount of foreignness present in my surroundings.

“Stagecraft” | Creative Nonfiction

amariano@rollins.edu

But that is not when it all started. Freshman year passed with excellent academics and minimal extracurricular involvement. I had formed several solid acquaintanceships which I tried to cater to, but my efforts fell somewhat short. The major change happened in the same classroom, but a different year. My teacher, Ms. C, was droning on about the mechanics of producing a show, and how student volunteers were necessary for success and always welcome. The bell rang. My fellow classmates filed out, eager to get home. I was stopped. Ms. C was serving as the director for the fall play. She politely inquired if I would like to be the assistant stage manager (ASM). I was mildly taken aback, uncertain that she was being legitimate. Why me? “You seem very responsible for your age.” She gave me an encouraging smile, and I was allowed to continue on my trek to the buses.

My thoughts came all at once, bouncing inside my skull, their reverberations swirling together to create a sizeable vortex of limitless chaos. Is this a time commitment that I wanted to embark on? Rehearsals were daily after school, extending the close of my days from 2:15 to 5:00. Thus far I had only spent the daylight of my afternoons wasting away in front of the television, stuffing my face with empty calories, killing my phone battery on account of a boy whom I had convinced myself was true love. I would constantly be taking orders from my superiors… but I would be a step above the actors in the stage hierarchy. The actors. I would be forced into proximity with a small community of unknowns. Surely I would be able to ease out of my social anxiety toward the situation, with some determination. Irresolute in my decision-making process, I did what any sensible teenage girl would have done: I emptied my dilemma unto the ubiquitous audience of social media.

September 15th, 2010 1:24pm: So Ms. C (my drama teacher) asked me to be assistant stage manager. What do ya'll think my response should be? Consequential remarks were: YES!!! I say yes! (: Good job by the way. OF COURSE!! i say do it Maybe it was the encouraging comments of my peers, or the disappointment of not making the cut for the school bowling team the month before, but I decided to go for it. I returned to school the next morn and divulged my decision to my teacher. She was elated. Ms. C handed me a multi-chapter packet on the ins and outs of stage managing, and I obligingly listened to her drone on about all of the regulations, formalities, and technicalities involved. Of course I was still excited, but technical theatre has never been particularly enticing orally—it needs to be put into action for one to truly appreciate the craft. It was during this apprenticeship process that I grew close with Ms. C, falling into the tradition of affectionately referring to her as Copey, like the upper classmen did. I admired her dedication. She taught me how be diligent with transcribing rehearsal notes, assertive when giving commands, and, most importantly, how to let the love of theatre fully envelop you.

amariano@rollins.edu

The Sandspur | Journalism

amariano@rollins.edu

The Sandspur | Journalism

amariano@rollins.edu

Alexandra Joana Mariano 8322 Caracas Avenue Orlando, FL 32825 Phone: 407-506-3571 E-mail: amariano@rollins.edu

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