I’d been living in LA for three months now and still had yet to receive a single audition. I hadn’t even made the cut at open casting calls. The money I’d carefully scraped together to live on while I looked for work was long gone. I’d thought I had enough for six months. I could have lived for nine months on it back home. Longer if I’d been frugal with it.

But everything was more expensive in LA. Even the coffee. Three months of showing up to casting calls with my hair perfectly styled and my makeup done. I was on my third can of hairspray for this month alone and my fourth tube of concealer. Costs added up.

This was my last chance. If I didn’t land this audition I was going to have to admit that I couldn’t make it. I’d have to go home.

That was unacceptable.

There was no help for it. I was going to have to do whatever it took to land that role. Regardless of the consequences. I didn’t expect to get a major role. But it would be enough to get my name out there. Maybe land another role and then another. Soon I’d be in Hollywood films. An A-lister. But I had to land that first role.

I dropped my last twenty into the hand of a photography student after reviewing the digital images. Perfect.

I couldn’t go wrong with this. The casting director would have to give me the part.

I clicked send on the email, “Consider me for your next movie.” Attached were a series of pictures ranging from a head shot to full nude.

The next morning, I received a call.


At the age of six, Eliza was certain of two things. The first was that she had stories to tell. The second was that she had no talent for illustrating them herself. Talent or no, she still wrote and illustrated her first book, one that should be located and locked away if only to prevent her parents from embarrassing her terribly by showing it off alongside baby pictures. Now she spends her days writing stories that she isn't embarrassed to show off after a little bit of polishing.

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