Dear Ms. or Mr. Donna,

To you, acting is a solo activity. You expect everyone to praise you and be at your every beck and call, regardless of your actual skill or talent in the area of performance. So let me tell you one thing right now: You are not unique.

Are you surprised that I would dare to call you something as offensive as "ordinary"? But it's true, and I have proof. I know this is true, because we have met before. I met you first in middle school, as the girl who was always used to getting the lead and then was suddenly cast as the understudy. She contemplated quitting, when she decided instead that she would get much more sympathy playing the martyr, and hanging around and sulking during rehearsals, taking every chance she got to remind the actress who "stole" her role that the only reason she had it is because she sucked up to the director.

I met you again in my first few years of high school as the senior who auditioned for Javert in Les Miserables and when he was cast as Enjolras, a perfectly interesting and respectable character, subsequently threw down his script and quit, leaving the director to cast someone else. He called his replacement "talentless," and while the replacement may not have been able to hit every pitch, he worked harder than the quitter ever did to get his part right. Subsequently, the replacement did a much better portrayal of the passionate student than the quitter ever could have.

I met you a third time in my junior year as the temperamental new guy, gay and proud, and that's why everyone hated him. Because Lord knows, the entire population of the drama department was homophobic. The second anyone tried to give him constructive criticism, he immediately dismissed it as "haters" who despised him for being amazing. Whenever he worked in groups with others, he refused to listen to any other ideas and forced everyone to do things his way, which wasn't always the best way.

I met you once more, my first year of college. You were the sweet girl who delighted in impressing new freshman. But when one of the protégés she had taken under her wing got the part instead of her, she immediately started badmouthing the freshman behind her back to her peers.

But by the time I reached the end of my sophomore year of college, you were nowhere in sight. Would you like to know why? Well, I have a few theories. You realized that your behavior garnered you very few real friends. You discovered that someone was actually better at performance than you were. You found that talent only gets you half way, and that "acting" isn't as natural as you previously thought. You learned that a "drama major" doesn't mean you'll only act, but you'll have to work in fields you're unfamiliar with, and gained new respect for directors, designers, stage crew and playwrights. All in all, eventually you realized that you weren't better than everyone else. That being the thirteen-year-old lead in the middle school play doesn't mean you'll be a movie star. That you couldn't become a star automatically just because you had talent. That there are others out there who want to work with you, not compete against you.

In the end, you realized that acting is not a solo endeavor. It's about ensemble, a word that your drama teachers have been shouting at you for years that you finally understand.

The mark of a great actor is his humility. Remember that.