The Great Gatsby. Black Gemstone Ring. Endless Inspiration.

There’s something magical about sitting in a velvet seat, lights dimming, voices quieting, and waiting for a story you already love to unfold in a new way. I knew the ballet adaptation of The Great Gatsby would be a visual feast, but I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would stir something within me—as a writer, a reader, and someone who believes in the enduring power of stories.

People arrived dressed for the occasion—think flapper fringe, feathered headbands, long pearls, and vintage gloves. It felt like stepping into Gatsby’s mansion ourselves. The energy in the theater was electric. Several theater patrons snapped selfies in front of the massive stage curtain, which I would later discover transformed throughout the performance, becoming part of the scenery, dreamscape, and heartbreak.

As the performance began, the dancers captivated us with their strength, artistry, and athletic prowess; I felt an overwhelming sense of awe. I was witnessing something rare: a story written in 1925 by a man who died believing he was a failure, brought to life in a completely new form for a sold-out audience in a small theater in downtown Houston, thousands of miles away in a country separated by the Atlantic Ocean.  

F. Scott Fitzgerald never lived to see the legacy of The Great Gatsby—the way his words would endure beyond him, being adapted into film after film, Broadway plays, high school English syllabi, and now ballets. That resonated with me deeply. A work that endures a hundred years after it was first told. As writers, we don’t always know which stories will transcend our time—all, some, or none.

Watching Gatsby extend his hand in dance toward a green light that would always be just out of reach—seeing Daisy, Jordan, and Tom brought to life through movement rather than dialogue, I understood the story in a fresh way. The heartbreak, conveyed through artistic expression, felt even more haunting. The hope seemed more fragile, and the opulence appeared more artificial.

And still . . . it was dazzling.

One of the most interesting aspects of the production was how cleverly the set shifted, using that initial curtain as a backdrop. It changed colors, textures, and projections depending on the scene. At the parties, it shimmered like golden bubbly champagne. In quieter moments, it darkened into moody twilight over Long Island Sound. It transformed into Gatsby’s mansion, the racing scene where Myrtle was struck, Nick’s cottage bathed in flowers for the lunch reunion, and the dreaded Valley of Ashes. It became several sets with the flick of the projector.

During intermission, as others sipped champagne in the lobby, I bought a small bauble—a piece of costume jewelry—nothing extravagant—an inexpensive ring. It resembled something Daisy might have worn. Black gemstones arranged in two circular rows form a flower with a striking center stone. It appeared vintage, bold, and feminine, sparkling under the theater lights.

I wear it while I write.

It’s encouragement, motivation, and a distant hope that something great will come from the words I've written. Stories typed in the quiet of the day, in complete isolation, with the hope that they will transfix readers for years to come. That the green light will continue to shine on new shores, eliciting others to stretch for something just out of reach, as Jay did.  

That they might carry my words a bit further down the timeline, and perhaps someone, someday, a hundred years from now, will remember.