A script is a personal item. Even when I wasn’t allowed to scribble in the margins of my Guys and Dolls or Little Shop of Horrors scripts — they were rented, not bought, by my high school — I covered them with a brown paper shopping bag wrapping to match my textbooks and doodled on the cover. Various tabs, bookmarks, and folded pieces of papers with stage directions poked out of the pages, peeking out from beneath the cover while adding a good half inch to the bulk of the script. All of these notations were important, some even added to the entire production by my own suggestion, and included stage directions and music changes among many other things.
And I wasn’t even good. I wasn’t any kind of lead actress, whose scripts often bowed, threatening to break at the binding from all of the extra citations, notes, and paper tabs. My largest high school stage moment came in my freshman year as a flower girl cutting clippings of Audrey II, spreading the man-eating plant around the world. It was a one-off role with no lines, where I led two others onstage to take plant clippings in gardening smocks and cute green gloves.