Author name: Stephanie Vlahos
I grew up in a town called Westport in Connecticut, where artists, writers, and actors congregated. As a child, I woke up every morning to the sound of inspiration in the incessant tapping on the Underwood typewriter. My parents were writers and teachers. My mother, Olivia, wrote extensively on anthropology, was a protégé of anthropologist Joseph Campbell. and a fabulous storyteller in the guise of professor, drawing from her early years as an actor. My father, John, wrote for the silver screen in Hollywood, then radio and early television in New York City, what some people refer to as the "Golden Age of Television." He never liked living in Los Angeles, and when he discovered the lush greenery of Connecticut, he soon moved the family to a house on a tall hill. The house was a converted artist's loft. I often recreate some of its details in my writing, for example, a short story entitled, "The Sad Story of Imani Cosmos." I grew up playing in the woods, envisioning large, stacked stones as bunkbeds. I'd play explorer, wielding a large stick to beat the grass, and followed by my best friend, a golden mutt named Snoopers, which I soon changed to Zazo. She was too beautiful, too exotic to own a generic dog name. And yes, I had a dreamy childhood. I was fortunate to have a dad who encouraged the instinct of make-believe as a conduit to creative cognition. I was quite free – a childhood filled with the freedom to imagine is nothing short of magnificent wealth. And because of my childhood, I spend a good portion of my writing and directing life invested in telling stories that might remind people that childhood should be honored. My father worked in a detached office on the very top of our hill. It was loft-like and filled with thousands of books and piles of newspaper clippings. My father received the first Emmy Award, but he also wrote special (very special) services for our church, in which the family performed. Despite those accomplishments, my father thought of himself as a poet. He wrote sonnets. He also went through a deep depression when I was quite young. I sensed what it might have been about, but never said anything. I have never sought to tell people how they feel. My father was such a kind, mild-mannered human that he wouldn't dare show his feelings. His feelings manifested discreetly. He would have a few glasses of wine after making a wonderful dinner. The dinner ritual complete, he'd retreat to the couch in the living room for a snooze. Still, he'd always wake up in time to put us to bed. Family members tucked in their beds, he'd retreat to his office and write till the wee hours. But his late-night stints never kept him from waking up before all of us, ensuring we'd be met with the sound of classical music, a warming house, the smell of breakfast replete with hand-brewed coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, and melon. Such stuff was magic, and I am aware that I was once rich. I walked a different creative path from my parents. You see, from a tiny age, I loved to sing. In my early teens, I was asked to sing in two madrigal ensembles, one professional, the other semi-professional. I loved to harmonize and blend. But when I first set foot onstage in a school play, there was no stopping me. I discovered I loved theatre and I loved singing. Where might I have gone? Opera, of course. I became a professional opera singer when a tiny voice in my chest said "yes," after a friend mentioned a new international opera company starting up in Los Angeles. I threw my bull terrier into my car and moved West. Amazingly, I nailed the gig, and within no time, I was standing on a massive stage in a 2500-seat house, singing lead roles opposite some of the opera greats like Maria Ewing, Thomas Allen, Leonie Rysanek (oddly, with Dudley Moore thrown in). I worked with directors such as Peter Hall, Jonathan Miller, and Gordon Davidson. I appeared in films directed by Walter Hill and Nicholas Triandafyllidis, working with actors like Jeff Bridges and Keith Carradine, and the crazy thing about those two actors was that we had a commonality through our dads. Their fathers had each worked with my father. I fell from grace at one point. I lost the sense of my vocal technique and indeed my voice. It lead me to explore performance art through the art of cabaret, Vaudeville, and music hall, creating solo shows where I received the distinction from Associated Press as “The Moonlighting Diva.” I was fascinated by twentieth century traditions in theatre and movie music. I loved a chunky ballad. In the late eighties I sang at Jean-Pierre Boccara’s critically acclaimed club Cafe Largo in Los Angeles in double-bills with people like Sandra Bernhard or the fabulous John Fleck. I presented shows with bballet dancers and jazz musicians exploring a wide repertoire with me. I loved lyrics. I loved learning the poems of Goethe, Verlaine, Blake, Dickinson, or Baudelaire through composers' voices such Gershwin or Weill, or the surrealism of Apollinaire in Poulenc’s L’Hotel, …I light my cigarette on the sun’s flame… … I want to to smoke." The theatre of opera with its condensed tragedies of unavoidable decisions, i..e..., Cio Cio San (Madame Butterfly) keeping vigil on a cliff overlooking the sea, waiting for Pinkerton while not realizing that he, along with his American wife, would take her son. Her story was not dissimilar to the plights of Brechtian females in Threepenny Opera, "Und ein Schiff mit Acht segeln…" or Weill’s French songs such as, "J’attends un navire" – "I wait for a ship," but the ship would never come. Such depth of keen desire, of the tarnishing of innocence by the horrible machinations of evil people. The stories gripped me, mesmerized me. I felt I sang as the characters in those songs, forgetting myself, my outer mind speaking for inner truths, of the great commonality. These were precious explorations into people and their stories which matured into different forms of expression. I became a stage director and mentor, creating a popular opera project for artistic teens that went from what they fondly called "the chess club" to a wildly popular kids' happening. I believed that the only way to truly appreciate opera was to experience grand opera first hand, per my original experience. And they did, singing grand opera (well, some grand opera) accompanied by a large orchestra, an artful mise en scene, and microphones, of course. In many ways, the inspiration of my work with them led me to become an Equity stage director. All those eager, passionate, and laugh-a-minute teens, reconstructing and deconstructing grand opera stories to find their relatability and relevance, inspired me to move forward and reinvent, again. I am grateful though I dearly miss the laughs. Sometimes, our personal lives shift, and with the shifts, the balance in our careers. We make new choices in tectonic emotional jolts. I moved away from singing and directing operas or envisioning orchestral works for stage. When I moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, a small stranger among tall Scots, my head was filled with stories just as the world hit up against Lockdown. Still, music lives in everything. I found my voice in a journey into writing and podcast. I had always written but never considered it in the thrall of music, but "why not?" I thought. I walked, or perhaps toddled, in my parents footsteps. Both parents gone, I would have to go that journey without their guidance. I edited my own work and found it to be a ruthless process of self-examination, but through it, I held one concept from my years in singing as a point of support. Writing isn't a listening journey but a feeling journey. It is meaning and communication. In short, how well can you tell the story.. .not for yourself but your audience? Life has taught me that it’s okay to still be working at it. As a writer, my favourite authors and influences are broad – Saki (H.H. Munro), Thomas Mann, Bram Stoker, Don Delillo, Rod Serling, C.S. Lewis, Moliere, Lewis Carol, Andrew Lang, Thomas Wolfe, Margaret Atwood, and lastly, my beloved dad, John Vlahos, whose first language may have been Greek, but who became a great writer of American stories for early television. Fast forward past the Twilight Zone, Tweedledum, and dry British horror stories – welcome to my stories. My first novel, "Mercury’s Wake" along with the little book, "JOHN K – Am I Alone?" Both books are accompanied by a soundtrack. The stories I tell can be seen as metaphor or metaphysical. They are stories about people coping under extraordinary circumstances some might characterize as sci-fi or paranormal. I might call my stories fairy tales, and if the element of sci-fi exists, it is more a reflection of possibility and personal challenge than spaceships and ray guns. I’m currently working on a tangential sequel expressed in a series of short stories and novellas entitled "6 – Histories and Premonitions." Thanks for stopping by. “Stephanie Vlahos explores how modern living has changed our sense of community and increased feelings of isolation … A thought—provoking, timely piece.” –––Lothian Life
