Chantal Bergeron

My aunt took me to a community-theatre rehearsal when I was nine and I was furious that the people on stage got to pretend for a living. I joined the next production, forgot every line, and loved it anyway.

Around my table, a play stops being literature and becomes a room full of voices. Everyone gets a role—even the person who planned to observe—and we read once without stopping, talk over wine, then read the best scene again. The second pass always feels like a tiny miracle.

I remember lines from plays I did twenty years ago and forget why I walked into the kitchen.