My earliest acting memory is making up a play for my mom and dad

“My earliest acting memory is making up a play for my mom and dad called The Lonesome Baby. I have no idea what The Lonesome Baby was about. I just remember the title. But I’m sure it was an epic.” — so spoke Jane Horrocks, and though she laughs at the innocence of her youth, her words open a window into the mystery of beginnings, of childhood creativity, and of the seeds of destiny planted before one even knows their name.

The memory she recalls is simple: a small play, made for the delight of her parents. And yet within that simplicity lies greatness. For the child, standing before her mom and dad, was already practicing the sacred art of storytelling, already weaving imagination into form, already declaring herself to the world. She cannot recall the content, only the title—but titles themselves hold power, the first proclamation of vision, the crown upon a tale. And so The Lonesome Baby becomes symbolic: the first spark of a fire that would later illuminate her career.

The ancients knew the power of beginnings. Consider Sophocles, who as a child was chosen to lead a chorus celebrating a great victory of Athens. His first role was not yet the crafting of plays, but the singing of songs to honor his city. Yet from this humble start came a poet whose works—Oedipus Rex, Antigone—still move us across centuries. Horrocks’ epic of childhood mirrors this same truth: that greatness often begins in small rooms, before small audiences, long before the world takes notice.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the innocent boldness of children. A child does not ask, “Will this be worthy?” but simply creates. They stand before their parents, their siblings, their friends, and they offer a story, a song, a dance. These first offerings may seem crude, unfinished, or even absurd—but they are sacred. They reveal the soul unguarded, the imagination unchained. Horrocks, in remembering The Lonesome Baby, remembers the unfiltered courage of creation.

This courage is what so many lose with age. As adults, we measure, we judge, we hesitate. We ask if our art will please critics, if our words will win praise, if our actions will be seen as great. But the child does not hesitate. To the child, every story is an epic, every effort is filled with grandeur. Horrocks’ laughter at her past is a reminder to us: we too must recover that spirit of play, that willingness to create without fear, that boldness to call even our smallest efforts epic.

The lesson is clear: do not despise your small beginnings, nor laugh them away as trivial. The memory of your first creations is not foolishness—it is prophecy. It tells you who you are, and who you were meant to become. To remember them is to remember your essence, before the world taught you to doubt.

Practical action follows: seek out your earliest creative memory. Recall the first thing you made, the first story you told, the first song you sang, even if only for your family. Honor it. Let it remind you of your true self, the self that created without fear of judgment. And if you have children, cherish their little plays, their drawings, their songs—do not dismiss them, for they may be the first steps of destiny.

Thus Jane Horrocks’ words resound with ancient wisdom: the child who made The Lonesome Baby did not know its meaning, but she knew its power. She knew that every story, however small, can be an epic if given with love and imagination. And so must we live—recovering the courage of our earliest creations, and carrying them forward into the fullness of life.