Eighteen months ago, a shy, sensitive movie star named Piper Laurie burst into uncontrollable hysterics while lunching with friends in a Hollywood restaurant. Sobbing pitiably, she fled the startled stares of onlookers.
Three days later, she "escaped: Hollywood and went to New York. No one knew why- not even Piper.
Recently, the new Miss Laurie appeared in a television play The Ninth Day. By the end of the program, she had enchanted millions of viewers and electrified Hollywood with a dramatic performance that will surely win her an Emmy nomination.
Today, Piper stands on the threshold of a new career in the movies- a career more rewarding, more challenging and more difficult than she had ever dreamed.
What transformed a girl who once ate flowers for publicity, who once was nothing more that a Technicolor clothes horse, whose very name was synonymous with bad acting, into a serious actress? What made a girl who had fame and fortune give it all up?
Only Piper Laurie can answer these questions; let's let her.

Most people think my decision to give up Hollywood and go to New York was sudden. It wasn't. The fact is, I never wanted to be a movie star. As far back as I can remember, I've had only one real ambition: to be an actress.
It all began, I think, when I was six. I had a poem to recite before my class in school. Until the moment I stepped on the stage. I knew the poem by heart. But the instant I faced that sea of faces I froze. I couldn't say the lines, yet no one could get me off the stage. I sat to one wide while all the other children went through their acts. Though I was only six, I never forgot it.
By the time I was ten, my mother noticed I was terribly shy for a girl my age. In an attempt to cure me, she helped me learn a couple of comic monologues. One of them was called The Old Maid, in which I imitated a half-dozen different women.
One afternoon in school, the teacher asked if anyone would like to entertain the class during a free-time period. Withoug a word I stood up, walked to the front of the room and recited my monologue. The kids liked it. From then on, whenever there was a lull in studies, as a "special treat," the teacher would let me- Rosetta Jacobs- recite.
When I was eleven, I wrote a play about a woman who hoarded money and food. It was very patriotic since we were in the midst of World War II. The kids used to come to my home after school and I'd direct- never act. The principal heard about the play, and one day, in all my glory, I presented it to the entire school in the auditorium.
My second and third year of high school were the two unhappiest years of my life. I have red hair, but for some reason that I never understood, my red hair embarrased me then. I know it sounds silly, but I thought there was something freakish about red hair. When you are young, anything that makes you different from others causes heartaches. It's difficult, I guess, for some people to realize how sensitive some youngsters can become over certain physical features.
I was convinced that I was unattractive to boys. I was clumsy, unable to express myself, shy and embarrased in the presence of others. I had braces on my teeth, and though I wasn't fat, I had what you might call surplus roundage all over. I had no shape at a time when all my girl friends were beginning to wear bras and fitted slips.
In sewing class, for example, one of the first things we had to make was a gym blouse for our class. I was the only girl who had to make a straight one, without any waistline. I was terribly upset. When it came time to take showers after gym class, I always made a special excuse to leave early so that I wouldn't have to bathe with the other girls. Frankly, I was ashamed of my own body. The next year something happened to me. I guess I just developed late, but I slimmed out in the right places. I haven't had to worry about my figure since. Until it happened, however, I had no thought of becoming an actress. I ddin't know what I wanted to be.
Then suddently, when I was sixteen, I began to think about acting. I happened to talk to a friend who knew a friend, one of those things, who was a student in the class organized by Benno Schneider, now dramatic coach at Columbia.
When I applied, they told me I couldn't get into the class because I was too young. They had good reasons. The class consisted of group work, and involved playing scenes from very mature plays. You rehearsed every day on the outside with the people you were doing scenes with. Usually older boys.
So I lied about my age, told them I was eighteen, and was accepted. I took great pains to conceal my aspirations from the kids in school. I had seen others who studied singing, dancing and music, and I didn't want to be called on to prove my ability. I was afraid they would see how limited my talent was. So I kept the whole business a deep, dark secret. I gave my friends all kinds of exuses--dentist appointments, shopping trips with my mother, extra home work, anything that would excuse me from attending football games, dances and all of the other activities you find in high school. I avoided any connection whatsoever with the dramatic club, and joined the art club instead, since I did paint a little. I managed to do my homework in study classes to keep my time after school free for my dramatic studies.
One afternoon, a boy I had acted with in the Schneider class took me to lunch at 20th Century Fox where he met his agent. He was older than I and already on his way to an acting career. His agent wanted to set up a screen test for me.
When I saw it, I was destroyed. It was horrible. But my discouragement lasted only three or four days. Then I tried at Warners. The auditions there turned out better and they signed me to a three month option contract- one of those "don't call us, we'll call you" things. I waitedd. Warners called. They gave me a stack of scripts and said, "Pick one."
I selected a short, highly emotional scene from Mildred Pierce. This test turned out better, but Warners dropped me anyway. A short time later, my agent showed the test to Universal-International executives. A few weeks later. I was signed as a contract player.
In the next six years, I made thirteen pictures. My leading men included Tony Curtis, Tyrone Power, Victor Mature, Donald O'Connor, Rock Hudson and Dana Andrews. I got the "star treatment:"- the publicity, interviews, photgraphs, personal appearance tours, the works.
And if real life was like the movies, I should have lived happily ever after. But I was miserable. It was a kind of inside anguish that I could explain to no one. For two reasons.
In 1952, I made a trip to Korea to entertain the troops. At the start of a trip like that, you feel like you're making a sacrifice by giving your time. But by the time you are finished, you feel ashamed that you could ever have compared what you are doing with the sacrifices the men are making to protect this country.
It was on my second trip to Korea that I discovered what sacrifice really is. When I finished a show one afternoon, a medical officer calle and asked if I would come over to the hospital to visit a seriously wounded man. He explained that there was no hope for the young man, that it was merely a matter of hours before he would die. I said I could come over.
When I got there, the soldier asked if I woudl see his parents when I returned to the States and tell them that he was all right. He explained that he had been a pre-med student and was planning to become a doctor as soon as he got back form Korea. His face was white and he was in great pain. But with a courage that I'd never seen before in a man, he laughed and attempted to shrug off the seriousness of his condition.
As we talked, I realized that for the first time I was close to a life whichas going to end. I didn't want it to end. Even as we talked, I was praying that somehow he could be saved. In my heart, I knew there was nothing I could do about it. I'll never forget the complete and absolute helplessness I felt as I watched him pretend that he would live.
Somehow I kept my composure. As I left I told him I'd be back the next morning. He waved me a cheery good-by and said he'd be waiting. He died that night.
I held up until I got home. Then I fell apart. I grieved for him as though he were the man I loved. I could not forget him. I wrote to his parents, hopinng that somehow I could ease the grief of their loss. And a few weeks later, I visited them in Northern California. Though I had known their son but a short time, they treated me as though I was one of the family. Meeting his parents was one of the most gratifying experiences I have ever known. Because of them, and their son, I finally realized that there is courage in every human heart.
For the next couple of years, I continued to make pictures. People told me they were good. People said they made money. And then I began to detect an awful similarity in the compliments I received.
My friends would say, "You look wonderful in colorrr, Piper." Or it would be, "You wore your clothes so beautifully in that one Piper." There was another one: "They certainly spent a fortune on you, Piper. I have never seen such a lavish production."
One night before I went to sleep, I tried to remember at least one person, just one, who had mentioned my acting. Then the awful truth hit me. No one ever had! And for the next few weeks, I begged the studio to allow me to do something more than just a harem dance or a bathing beauty parade. But each time, they carefully explained that my only task was to stand around, smile and look pretty. Why ask for work when you are getting along so well by just taking it easy?
Finally, in November of 1954, I got my release from U-I. That night, I jumped for joy. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized that I didn't know what I was jumping about. I had no place to go, nothing to do. I was more confused than I had ever been.
A couple of days later, I was lunching with a friend. We were joined by a young actor from New York, Mark Rydell. We started to talk about acting, about careers, about what we were going to do with our lives. I don't know what came over me, but suddenly I was speaking in a high, shrill voice, telling Mark that at last I was a free woman, a free actress, able to do as I pleased. Mark asked what I had planned.
I could not answer his question. At that instant, I knew I was a big nothing. My career had been a sham, a hollow, uneventful, unrewarding fairy tale. As a person, I was a nobody. And I realized with a shock that all my good intentions, my work with the Schneiders, my hopes, the promises I had made to myself, were jokes. And as I sat there. I burst into tears and hysterics. I felt like a fool to carry on like this in front of strangers.
I told Mark I was a failure, a fraud who had never done anything to earn the respect that had been given me. A few days later. I went to New York.
I would like to emphasize that I don't think I made a sacrifice by leaving Hollywood. A sacrifice is giving up something you love for a good reason. I had nothing, nothing at all, to give up. In New York, through my agent, I learned of a play which contained the most exciting idea I had ever read. It was a play called Maiden Voyage. Although the thought of reading for the part was exciting, it was also terrifying.
At the audition, I got up on the stage with one work light shining on me in all that darkness. Something happened to me that had happened once before, when I was very young. I froze. I couldn't utter a line. Finally I did stumble through a few words that were printed on the pages before me, but they meant nothing- neither to me nor to my listeners. I became hysterical again and cried like a baby. When I finally calmed down, I tried it once more.
I hate to admit it, but I was a complete flop. I went back to my little apartment feeling so despondent and frustrated that it seemed that I would be unable to endure it. But then I remembered I had seen others endure the unendurable. Thinking about that helped, and from somewhere in my mind came the realization that failures are part of an actor's lot.
I decided to stay in New York despite my dismal beginning, but first, I had to go back home and straighten up a few things. The most important thing I did back in Hollywood was to break the ties with my famiy. I had never left home. Now I knew I had to. Whatever I did from that moment on had to be based on my decisions and mine alone.
Back in New York, I got another shock when I attempted to read for another play. I was told by the playwright with diplomacy, that I was "too fragile" for the role. When I persisted for a fuller explanation, I got it- both barrels.
This play, I was told, had every chance of becoming a hit. It stood a strong chance of winning a Pulitzer Prize. In view of those possibilities, he explained, they simply couldn't afford to put the name Piper Laurie in the cast.

Believe me, when an actress is told that her very name is synonymous with bad acting, she's had it. Some of my friends suggested that I change my name. I thought about it for a while, but I decided on another plan. Instead of changing my name, I would change Piper Laurie. That was the beginning.
From then on, I studied, read scripts, did as many television plays as I could. Finally, I landed a wonderful part in The Ninth Day. To the public, I guess that was the first indication of the new me.
The praise was good for my soul. It was a long time in coming. After that I needed another good part. Fortunately, MGM came through with the juicy role of a sex-starved girl in Until They Sail. What next? Who knows!
One thing is certain. The old Piper Laurie is no more. It took a long time, but I have learned that you just can't take anything you want out of life without putting something back in exchange. And even then when you take it, you've got to take it with your whole heart.
Piper Laurie stars in MGM's Until They Sail.

The article is accompanied by a full page black and white photo of Piper Laurie clasping her hands while seated on a velvet plush divan, looking very intently at the camera, and a quarter page b&w photo of Piper with right hnd to her forehead, apparently in pain or deep thought, with the caption- Says Piper: "My friends would say, ' You looked just gorgeous in color.' Then I woke up to the fact that no one- not even one person- had ever mentioned my acting."