Apparently, chocolate was Lindsey's latest stress relief.
As if anything could relieve her stress tonight.
Around her lay the freshly printed cuttings, collated and stapled to be passed from hand to hand at auditions tomorrow. In front, tiny scenes were taped onto blue construction paper from her efforts to organize them according to actors to arrange a rehearsal schedule. She had one now - twenty rehearsals, the first few weeks focusing only on a group at a time.
If she could get the theater for those days.
If she could get actors to show up on those days.
If there was even a show.
With a cast of 29, it had been a crazy week, researching, writing, rewriting, arranging imaginionary conversations amoung real people. Taking dialogue straight from research when she could - then worrying over how it would come across to a modern audience.
Was her script even any good? She'd been happy the last read-through, though even now she remembered bits that she'd forgotten to put in the script. But now, skimming it for cuttings for auditions, it looked like trash. Like a script that had been written with the help of lots of coffee and little sleep. Like she'd pushed pennies with names on them, around the table, trying to visulize the stage direction. Like she'd worked with paint fumes, hammering, and electric tools as the house around her was remolded.
Tonight she sat down to try and organize her whirling thoughts into some sort of order.
She had a building - given that the show was allowed to go on with enough actors to fill the parts.
She had face-booked on her site, the Titanic site - even caught that long-neglected bird and sent a tweet out to #onemilliontitanicfans.
Surely at least a few of those million were somewhere in her area with nothing to do for the next seven weeks.
She'd been told by several people she was crazy - tonight she believe them.
But her voice was on the radio, articals in the paper - even getting a one-page spread as the "citizen of the day" which would be read by friends, enemies and relatives alike.
Things had been easier at first.
She'd written the entire outline of the script overnight.
She'd called Rob who was already working one show, asking for backdrops for Titanic. He said to let him know what she needed.
Her uncle, Rocky, had jumped on the special effect boat and had spent a few evenings plotting the dry-ice that would pour over the stage like water, the sugar-bottle that would smash, and the lighting effects that would "wow" the audience.
She'd met twice at the theater to go over details about who would do what.
But as Rob said, "There was just her - and there wasn't very much of her."
Brandi informed her that "she was so little highschool kids would walk over her."
The last meeting had clarified that if she didn't have enough people show up at the morning auditions, the show might not go on.
She'd been so sure this was God's will. That he had dropped the experience in her lap at a time when she was searching for him. Even with a little bit of pay.
The screens fell into place. The special effects feel into place.
Brandi had called her to come get a few costumes and loaded two cars with around 100 gowns.
The original dates on the 100th anniversary had moved back to May - three weeks before she'd turn twenty-five.
But her hopes of raising a bit of money for IJM fell through, leaving her wondering how God was planning on working through this show.
She had no producer. No stage manager.
And tonight she wasn't even sure if she had more than a handful of actors.
Lord, you're going to have to help me here. I need people. I need a stage manager. I need suits for the men. I need enough money to cover the dry ice and special effects. I need help.
I at least need reassurance that I didn't hear you wrong and waste the last two weeks of my life working around the clock to get this going. I'm exhausted and the show hasn't even started yet.
It was feeling like a mess.
She still needed to drive to her sister's house where she was sleeping while guests occupied her normal room. She wondered if she would even sleep tonight.
The script wasn't quite finished.
She hadn't checked to make sure the rehearsal schedule was even feasible and correct against the script. She hadn't even gotten the script to the man who was considering the role of Captain Smith.
"The Ship of Dreams" might remain only a dream.
But never-the-less, she would be running auditions at 9:00 the next morning - who had ever heard of morning auditions? She hadn't, but thus the theater decreed.
After, she'd been plugging in people, making phone calls. Hopefully setting up a second audition day.
One morning wasn't enough to cast 29 people.
Especially if she was asleep.
And yet, how apt this production was.
Her first to direct alone.
Her largest play to be in charge of.
The story of a large ship, full of hopes and dreams on a perilous journey seemed a rather apt story line to parallel her life.
In this show, Jack and Rose didn't exist.
But Quigg smuggled his girlfriend on board, keeping his engagement a secret from his family. Thomas Andrews still fixed the clocks and wandered the halls in search of corrections. Mary and Margaret discussed a bright future in America. Jeremiah blessed Kate with his Holy Water to keep them both safe on their journey. Charlotte boarded with 27 pieces of luggage. Molly Brown sang with a five-year-old child. The Caldwells escaped the suspicion of the missionary board, in search of a cure for Sylvia's mysterious illness. Ruth Becker dreamed of growing up to marry like Ethel.
They were real people with real stories. Fascinating stories of courage and despair. Of sacrifice and survival. It was their stories that had kept her engrossed in a book six years before. It was their stories that she thought of every April. It was their tales that kept her at her computer now. It was the 100th anniversary and she wanted to honor them. To keep the tales alive. To share with people the true lives of people who had found out what they were made of when a boat began to sink under their feet.
Once again their stories hung in the balance, to be revived or to sink back into the pages of history.
Each story hung on one person who would or would not show up tomorrow.
Lindsey wondered what sort of persons she would find.
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