I did 'Lone Star Love' in 2007 with Randy Quaid, and that was

Hear the sorrowful words of Kara Lindsay: “I did ‘Lone Star Love’ in 2007 with Randy Quaid, and that was supposed to come to Broadway at the Belasco and a marquee went up and everything... and it all fell apart, and that marquee came right down, and we got severance pay. And, it was very sad.” In this remembrance, we do not hear only the story of a single show, but the lament of all dreams that rise high, shining in promise, and yet collapse before they may be fulfilled. It is the ancient tale of hope and heartbreak, the glory of expectation shattered by the frailty of human plans.

The raising of the marquee is like the lifting of a banner before battle—a symbol that something great is to come. It gleamed over the theater, a promise not only to the actors but to the city itself, that a new creation was ready to be born. And yet, like banners torn down in defeat, the marquee fell, leaving behind not triumph but silence. The severance pay was the last coin of consolation, but money cannot mend the heart that has poured itself into art. The sadness Kara Lindsay describes is the grief of creation stifled, the mourning of a dream denied the chance to live.

This sorrow is not hers alone. History is filled with such fallen dreams. Recall the great cathedral of Beauvais in France, begun in the thirteenth century with the ambition to be the tallest in Christendom. Its spire reached heavenward with breathtaking grandeur, but in 1573, the vaults collapsed, and the dream of the tallest cathedral was forever broken. To this day, Beauvais stands unfinished, a monument both to human daring and human limitation. Just as Lone Star Love had its marquee torn down, so too did Beauvais have its tower crumble—a reminder that even the greatest aspirations are vulnerable to the fragility of fate.

Yet in this there is also beauty. For even in failure, there lies testimony to courage—the courage to dream, to risk, to attempt what may not endure. The sadness Kara Lindsay recalls is edged with nobility: she and her companions had dared to create. They had rehearsed, believed, and prepared for the light of Broadway, and though the world denied them that stage, their labor was not wasted. For art is not only in the performance but in the striving, and every attempt leaves an imprint upon the soul.

The lesson, then, is this: do not measure the worth of your labor only by its visible success. The marquee may fall, but the effort, the passion, the artistry—they remain within you, strengthening you for the next endeavor. In every failure is hidden preparation for the triumph that follows. The heart must not linger only on what has been lost, but must rise, like the phoenix, to seek another stage, another song, another chance.

Practically, we must live as creators who do not fear the collapse of plans. Build your dreams, even knowing some may fall. When disappointment comes, acknowledge the grief, but do not let it consume you. Reflect, learn, and then continue forward, carrying the wisdom of what was not to be. Share your story, as Kara Lindsay did, so that others may see not only the glamour of success but also the quiet resilience forged in failure.

Thus the teaching stands: life’s marquees will rise and fall, but the true stage is the soul. The show that matters most is the one within, where every attempt—successful or broken—forms the character of the artist and the human being. Let us walk bravely into our endeavors, knowing some banners will be torn down, but each one raised is still a victory of spirit. For the saddest fate is not failure, but never daring to try.