Ridiculously Proud: Diary of a Diva

By Charis Bell

Ridiculously Proud: Diary of a Diva celebrates friendship, family, and true love.

 

It tells the story of a shamed and conceited Broadway actress who moves back to her small-town home, where she learns that love and humility are far more important than fame and fortune.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Epic Ordinary
• Release date: Jul 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393051824

Book preview

Ridiculously Proud: Diary of a Diva

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Dear Diary,

It is paramount that I keep an accurate reflection of my life for my own remembrance, and perhaps for my fans. So, let me begin with this:

I lost everything!

I gained thirty-four and a half pounds and lost everything. That seems ridiculously unfair, doesn’t it? But that’s showbiz, I guess. I lost everything and I was pretending not to be embarrassed. Losing everything implies having everything—which may or may not be entirely true, depending on how you look at it; but I had a lot. Let me explain.

I grew up in a small town. While I was different— and by different, I mean discontent— I wanted something more, believed I deserved more, and so I sought it. The town was old, small, simple. I was young, grand, and somewhat theatrical. I wanted to be part of something grander than life. And how on earth was I possibly going to do that in a small town?

Yes, I was the star of many a town play and yes, with every round of applause, I grew prouder and more annoying. So, yes, if truth must be told, I was somewhat of a diva. I heard one lady call me a conceited brat. While it may have been true, it still hurt – but I was condescending to her ridicule and rolled my eyes. So what if I was a brat?! It meant that finally someone cared too much about me, instead of not at all. Besides, I was talented. I had to acknowledge it if they wouldn’t.

Long story short, I got out and I made it big.

And I hated it. But I can’t say I knew I hated it. At least not right away. I was weary of it. I was a woman of the world, but I wasn’t happy. I had many admirers; my house was full of things and my bank with money, but I felt empty. I was rich and famous – I was the best theater actress of my time – and though I wasn’t happy, I was full of pride; I walked with a straight back and my chin up. When I wasn’t reminding myself, it came almost naturally.

Anyway, as silly as it sounds, it was gain that accelerated my losing everything – I gained a few pounds and apparently directors noticed. I stopped getting cast for lead roles. The audacity to judge me because I was slightly chubbier than most Broadway leads. Preposterous, really! Though, if truth be told, it never bothered me when the other girls didn’t get cast for the very same reason. But never mind them, I was an excellent actress – regardless of the little number on the back of my dress tags. It was ridiculous, really—but I saw it as them losing the greatest actress of their time; they didn’t even think twice.

But, since this is to be an accurate reflection of my life, I must confess there was more to it than my appearance.

I had stormed into the theater during one of their rehearsals and made a big scene about not being cast as the lead. I yelled and commanded and completely made a fool of myself. Do you know who I am? I demanded.  You’re making the biggest mistake of your lives! I exclaimed with other such proclamations as I tore the script from an actress’s hand. They promptly reminded me that whenever I did get a role, I was intolerable to work with, that I was condescending, made unreasonable requests, and thought I was the best. So, I’m sure weight wasn’t the main thing keeping directors from hiring me. I was an annoying – not skinny – demanding diva whom no one was casting, not even as an understudy. And of course, anything less than a lead was out of the question. I hated to think I was so replaceable. I liked to blame it on the weight. It was more conducive to self-pity, a melodramatic skill I excelled in. But it was probably my diva demands and outlandish outburst, news of which undoubtedly spread. So, alas, I didn’t land any roles.

My lifestyle should have changed, but it didn’t – if anything, I became more extravagant. I spent lots of money to fool my fake friends into believing I was still important, a somebody, rich. I wouldn’t consider a minor role and I didn’t even try to lose the weight, never mind about apologizing or working on my attitude. I was too stubborn and too proud. I did this all while trying to convince myself that any day now I’d get a callback. And, as you’ve probably surmised by now, I didn’t.

In all my time away, I would try not to think about the small town. Except at Christmas, when I was alone. Then I wouldn’t try so hard not to think about it. In fact, I couldn’t help but think of Bonitas—strange name, I know, I’m pretty sure it’s Latin for ‘kindness’ or something like that. Anyway, I’d sit alone on my sofa in front of the decorated tree without presents, except for one box of chocolates from my agent, and think back to the ice skating, caroling, pot lucks, and Christmas play. I’d remember every show in vivid detail: how I’d gotten the role of Mary when I was nine and then again when I was twelve, and the Angel the next two years in a row; how my dress had sparkled in the dimly lit town hall, and how my song had filled the room – how I had thought so very highly of myself – but how by the next Christmas, I hadn’t been invited to Priscilla’s class party or been included in the gift exchange. Let’s face it, I was a snob. No one liked me; and, if I’m being honest, I didn’t always like me either – but that didn’t make being unliked any less hurtful. Of course, Nancy, the minister’s daughter, was kind to me, but she was kind to everyone, so she didn’t count. Had I brought this on myself? Probably. In my attempt to be better than the town’s people with whom I felt I didn’t belong, I was annoying. Very annoying.

But maybe, just maybe, I had a reason for being annoying. Maybe I had spent my whole life being surrounded by annoying people so that when I finally stopped being moved around from foster home to foster home, and some kind soul from Bonitas adopted me and I was – for, like, the first time ever – surrounded by nice people, I felt strange, like I didn’t belong. To compensate for the strangeness I felt, I tried to make myself feel important, worthy of Aunt Jay’s love (the kind soul that adopted me). It might sound ridiculous, but it’s better than believing I’m just annoying for no reason. Right?

But here’s the thing, Aunt Jay loved me unconditionally. She loved me before she even knew me. Seriously. She said she had a soft spot for older orphans. And I’ll tell you what I should have told her more often: I loved her too. I loved her because she took in a shy eight-year-old and loved her even when that little rascal didn’t talk to her for weeks. I loved her because she played dress-up and expanded my imagination. I loved her because she encouraged my theatrical tendencies and was so happy when I got the part of Mary. I loved her because she helped me learn my lines, because she was proud of everything I did, because she watched every show – every show – even if she had already seen it. I loved her because she loved me even when I didn’t listen to her about speaking kindly with the other kids. I loved her because she loved me even when I decided to move away to an arts school. And for a thousand other reasons, I loved her. She was the only reason I visited every Christmas after I left and started to get famous.

But after she died, I had no reason to go back.

She left me our old farmhouse, but I never went back after her funeral. That was six years ago.  I remember her funeral like it was yesterday. Everyone from the town was there. They filled that tiny chapel but no one knew what to say to me. They felt awkward. Because they didn’t really know me anymore. Some of the girls asked me if I needed anything. My pride hid my grief and I remember replying, I’m a twenty-year-old Broadway sensation, I don’t need anything. I still regret saying that; as if fame and fortune could undo the destruction of my heart! The one person who had loved me unconditionally was gone; I had lost everything, and when asked if there was anything I needed, I lied and said no.

I think the girls knew I was being defensive, but after I ignored all their calls and messages, they stopped trying. Except Nancy. She still left voicemails and emails for me; and in the years that followed, she even sent me a card or two. The first Christmas after Aunt Jay’s passing, Nancy sent me a Christmas card inviting me home for