Originally posted in 2019, I’m resharing this piece now as I prepare to open my very first show as a director: Songs for a New World. It feels like the right time to revisit one of the earliest moments when I took a leap, pushed myself outside my comfort zone, and dared to chase a new dream.
It was the usual post-audition drive home down a blackened country road on a crisp, wintery Sunday night: replaying my performance of Corner of the Sky over and over in my head; wondering what the artistic team thought of the reading I did for the character of Charlie Brown — as well as a reading for Linus that I was handed on the spot — and, of course, questioning if the team thought I blew that one as badly as I was sure I had…
Like I said: the usual post-audition drive home.
For anyone who has ever auditioned for a theatre or musical production, this is the deal. It’s terrifying. You put yourself out there in front of a few people sitting at a table judging your every movement, expression, pitch, and tone. After weeks or months of planning, rehearsing and stressing, it’s over within minutes. And then you wait for that phone call.
In the meantime, you run it over and over in your head — what could I have done differently? Did I hit that note? Did I move with enough intent, or did it look forced or awkward? Did I express the lines in the script the way the Director would have?
It was the second of two nights of auditions and callbacks were scheduled for the next evening, so I figured I’d hear back quickly — likely shortly after arriving home. After more than a month of rehearsing Corner of the Sky and Younger than Springtime during every waking hour outside of work, I tried to recharge by opening up Spotify for the drive home and just cranking something different to sing along to — Return to the Moon by my favourite band du jour: EL VY — as it were on this night.
About three-and-a-half songs in, the music faded, replaced immediately by a buzzing sound. The name “Melissa” — the Executive Producer — popped up on my iPhone, lit up brightly against the darkness.
This was the call.
Let’s back up a bit.
I’d been performing in community theatre musicals for a company in the Greater Toronto Area for over five years. The story of how I even got into this world is a fun one: my son had been involved as a youth performer with the company, and when they were in search of more men for All Shook Up in the Fall of 2013, I auditioned on a whim. It looked like it would be fun — and, honestly, a lot of the performers seemed like regular people. I didn’t go to school for acting, music, or dance. But I am a voracious shower and car vocalist.
By January 2019, I’d performed in eight musical productions.
Over those five years, I started to think about possible lead or supporting roles I might one day audition for — parts that might suit my appearance and performance style. As a guy who stands at a generous height of 5’6″ and who had carved out a bit of a niche in comedic ensemble roles, I knew I wouldn’t be cast as a Disney prince anytime soon.
But there was one role I could see myself in.
For a few auditions, I had performed The Kite from You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. As a kid, I really identified with Charlie Brown — and that song always resonated. It’s a great sing and a fantastic character piece. And crucially, it’s a role that doesn’t require a chiseled, six-foot-tall lead.
So when the group announced in the Winter of 2018 that You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown would be their spring show, I immediately set my sights on the role. I made a plan. I worked with a director friend to select a song that matched my voice and the character. I booked multiple sessions with a vocal coach to work on the singing and performance. I learned so much. By the time that Sunday night audition arrived, I felt more prepared than I’d ever been.
The reading for Charlie Brown went fairly well. But then… they asked me to read for Linus. I hadn’t prepared. I stumbled through it. Didn’t connect to the character. It felt awkward. Rookie mistake: I hadn’t planned to read for anything but my first-choice role. That moment shook my confidence a bit.
Was someone else already favoured for Charlie Brown? Did they think I might be a better Linus? Or had I tanked both, and wouldn’t be cast at all?
I stopped to pick up a few groceries afterward but wandered aimlessly through the store, completely in my head. I had really set my heart on this one. It was personal. I knew how much the role would mean to me. I just didn’t know if I had blown it.
Eventually, I drove home.
And then the phone rang.
I answered. It was Melissa.
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. How’s it going with you?”
“Goooood,” she said. And then:
“So, I have news…”
I was paralyzed…
“Well, we’d like to offer you the role of…”
Linus, I thought in that nanosecond of time. Still good. I made it in. That’s great. It’s something.
“Charlie Brown,” she said, quietly.
I don’t even remember what I said next. I was in shock. Gratified. Disbelieving. Overwhelmed. I had to pull the car over. It was one of those rare moments where you know how hard you worked for something… and then it actually happens.
The artistic team believed in me. And I would be stepping on stage as Charlie Brown.
Four months later, I stood on stage as Charlie Brown, the house lights down and the show beginning. And a few minutes in, when I finally sang the lyrics “All I need is one more try. Gotta get that kite to fly. And I’m not the kind of guy who gives up easily…”, I wasn’t just singing as a character. I was singing as me.
The nerves, the self-doubt, the choice to go for it anyway… it had all brought me here.
And somehow, that kite really did fly.
Six years later, I’m stepping into a new role — this time as a director. My first show, Songs for a New World, opens later this month. It’s funny to look back on this moment and realize how many unexpected doors opened simply because I dared to try.
Whether it’s performing, directing, designing, or even writing — I’m still chasing new challenges and learning as I go. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll get back to teaching. In the meantime, thanks for reading — and for joining me on this wild creative trajectory.
