The other day I was getting off the train in Back Bay, and I felt a little guilty.
I looked around at my fellow commuters with furrowed brows, sighing deep breaths to build their courage to face the day. Spreadsheets were involved, I’m sure.
(I stare at people in the city all the time. That’s the terrific skill you can build growing up in the country where folks eyeball each other all the time.
City folk don’t have the resources — as Barbara Kingsolver described in her novel Demon Copperhead, “you have to save your juice.” —
So that leaves me, Mr. Eye Contact on Main Street free to people study. I’m also super nosy, so I can’t help it.)
But I felt that little guilt twinge disembarking the double deckah; as I walked down the platform and up the station stairs, I was like, “How’d I get so lucky that my job is listening to folks sing in a building full of recently tuned Steinways?”
If you’d told 12-year-old Dan in Mrs. Smith’s music trailer classroom that was going to be his job one day, he’d have squealed and cut a cartwheel right there.
Last Friday, I was chatting with a collaborative pianist during a classroom change.
“Good semester start?”
“Yeah, great,” she said in her terrific Polish dialect.
“I know, I said — I was thinking today how I get to work in a building full of pianos!”
She agreed. “If you’d told me as a little girl in Poland I’d be here one day, I never would have believed you.”
And I grand jetéed out of the recital hall in celebration of a week getting to do this crazy job where I sigh, yell, screlt, shout, and mimic dramatic mezzo sopranos like it’s normal all while assuming various ego identities.
It’s silly.
I also listened to an interview with Arthur Brooks and Oprah at Harvard Business School on the YouTubes. (I do recommend Brooks’s article series in The Atlantic.)
Oprah talked about how helpful it is to review all the “you never knew you were gonna’s.”
I agree.
12-year-old me never thought I’d teach at a conservatory surrounded by folks who blow my mind.
16-year-old me didn’t know sitting in the balcony of the Majestic Theatre in 1994 that in 8 years I’d be playing a role in that same show out on the road.
And confused, anxious, wounded me through a big chunk of my life didn’t know that guardian angels, true friends, and loving mentors would help me heal and integrate enough to share (very imperfectly) some of the ways that helped me — mostly through singing.
(Confusion, anxiety, and wounds are still a part of me; they’re just not all of me. They also tell me to slow down, breathe, pray for help, and allow some compassion to me and from me.)
I’d love you to review a few times in your life when that version of you had no idea that later you would get to do something terrific.
And the same is true for right-now you.
We have no idea what splendid things we’re going to grow into.
There’ll be all the usual obstacles and snares, scrapes and snot, but I believe you’ve got the tools.
Know how I know? You’re reading this now. You made it.
What’s that terrific quote? You have a 100% success rate of making it through hard days.
Well done.
And here’s to what’s ahead — something beautiful you don’t even know about yet and wouldn’t believe if future you materialized and told you about it.
May you, one day soon, have to manage guilty feelings on a commuter train as you suppress the urge to skip.
And remember — there’s only one you. Folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Last week, I heard something that exploded an assumption.
(It was an interview with Seth Godin on Jen Waldman and Peter Shepherd’s podcast “The Long and the Short of It.”)
It was about the theatre industry.
Seth Godin said, “(The theatre) pretends to be an industry, often to its detriment. It is much less an industry than just about any other. And yet, the people in it keep trying to make it one, which is the first mistake.”
Hearing someone outside the theatre observe this made my brain lightly detonate, and my soul relax.
Of course it’s not an industry.
We’re all clutching the assumption that it is and somehow expecting repeatable functions and predictable outcomes.
He explained more: “The theater is so idiosyncratic, so commercially unviable, so beset by creative destruction that it’s not an industry…Star Wars is an industry. You can keep making new Star Wars shows and make a profit for a long time. Right? But a three week run of an off-Broadway play about a Buddhist retreat? That’s not an industry. That’s the theatre, for God’s sake.”
I thought about phenomena like Phantom, Wicked, and Hamilton.
But Godin’s right. Phantom didn’t guarantee the success of Love Never Dies. Wicked’s success didn’t launch a series of successful Gregory Maguire novel adaptations. And I just read a headline that Lin Manuel Miranda won’t be writing any more historical musicals.
(There is a whole discussion to be had about the Disney-verse, though.)
What gets confusing is this: the theatre has so many iterations. And many resemble predictable industry models. Therefore, these formulae get shellacked onto shows that producers decide ? have commercial promise.
But then there are all the other manifestations of our art form: non-profit houses with variable funding levels, scrappy storefront black boxes, union waiver companies, outdoor pageant situations, the story goes on and on and on and on and ooooooonnnn.
Here’s the headline, though: when you stop trying to figure out the theatre as an industry, you can relax.
Folks have been looking to commercial theatre expecting it to take a lead in cultural conscience when most of the people responsible for getting shows on a stage are stimulant-driven cortisol addicts with exhausted adrenals for whom Vegas odds are too conservative.
And then there’s the stage actor’s union who opens wider the doors for membership and calls it a move for equity when any actor can tell you what a desperate need for cash feels like.
These are the folks we’re waiting on. These are supposed to be the change makers.
Commercial theatre is going to make choices that can make money. It’s commercial.
Unions? I’m grateful for the union, and it’s given me a lot of reasons for side-eye in the last few years.
But what I want you to hear are two other major points Mr. Godin made.
One is this:
“If you want to make it in the theatre, you should learn to write. Because if you can write, you can cast yourself. And all good things start to happen once you figure out how to not only act it, but decide what gets said… that doesn’t mean you’re going to be Neil Simon or Lin Manuel, but you can figure it out. Even if you never get your thing produced, it changes your perspective.”
As someone who’s never gotten my thing produced, I have to agree. Writing makes you see theatre making anew, and it turns you, the storyteller, into a story collaborator.
So, what if you knew that the theatre isn’t really an industry?
What if you knew no one was coming to show you the franchise handbook where the shows get made and the folks always get cast?
I’d say that means you can get to work.
You can get going on sharing what you have to share, singing what you have to sing, writing what you have to write.
Because the last point Godin made about the theatre was what I resonated most deeply with:
“It’s very hard for you to change what happens on stage because that’s what they picked you to do, read the lines as written. But backstage, there’s an enormous number of things you can do. And they call it a company, but they should call it a cohort, a cadre, a tribe, a group of people.
“Who’s leading them? Who’s deciding what it’s like around here, backstage?…Even if what we do on stage is the same every night, what happens backstage is about mutual growth. You have more freedom to do that in the theatre than just about any job you can imagine.”
The relationships I’ve made backstage — that’s the gold of a life in the theatre.
The room I’m sitting in right now is thanks to knowing Lydia Rajunas on the Phantom tour 21 years ago.
Who knew when we were vibrato-ing upstage toward a rolling elephant that she’s save my nervous, home-seeking ass when I was 43 and looking for a decent spot for my family to live near Boston?
There’s no people like show people. We know this.
Join me in understanding the theatre isn’t an industry. It’s the theatre.
And let’s make more of it. There have to be many ways to gather folks in a spot and share stories and beautiful music, and why can’t you be someone who introduces one of them?
No one’s coming with the franchise manual. It’s you.
Because there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
That was me two Sundays ago. We were getting home from church.
I’m convinced the number one way to get your kids to be oppositional and emotionally seismic while you discover your own nuanced crevasses of asshole potential is to attempt leaving your house on time for church.
We made it. Late. And I had a severe “don’t ask” side-eye roll going on as we brought the boys to their class.
On the way home, we did a grocery pickup (thanks for making sure we got food in the house, Melissa-Lee).
I commented as we waited that picking up groceries felt like a big chore.
Parking in a designated spot while a friendly high school kid rolls out your groceries all procured and bagged and even loads them into the back of your VW — a big, overwhelming, huff-sigh chore.
And they were probably out of the frozen waffles, too. Double huff.
I’m fine. I’m fine.
We got home — “Load out boys. Time to make some lunch.”
I put my grocery hauling game face on. Grabbed a couple bags and the gallon of milk I’d put up front with me so it wouldn’t fall out of the back and smash on the garage floor like it did that one time.
Even tired dads can use that noggin sometimes.
I held the door for Jude as he bounced up the stairs with 4 of the 5 stuffed animals he’d insisted his life would be incomplete without that morning.
Then I began my ascent.
Only, the condensation-covered gallon of milk I’d balanced on top of my forearm decided it wanted its freedom, and performed a perfect dive onto the carpeted stairs.
And burst.
I stood and watched 2% low fat milk flood out of the compromised container like, “Is this real life?”
Then I exclaimed something — probably rhymed with “yuck.” I don’t remember; I’d dissociated by that point.
I heard a concerned “What’s wroooong, Daddy?” from Jude in the living room, and I snapped back into reality.
I scooped up the leaky jug, shuttled the remaining contents to the kitchen, and finally found a use for the milk pitcher sitting atop our kitchen cabinets.
A third of a gallon of perishable dairy product — exactly what you want saturating your carpet, right?
This rogue grocery item must have known about one of the many unchecked items on my summer list:
__ Clean the carpet on the entry stairs.
Someone who made design choices about our house and didn’t have children chose white carpet, and by mid-January, no matter how unshod our feet remain, it starts looking pretty shameful.
So here was my chance to break out the Bissell carpet washer we invested in when we moved in and unearth the Oxy-Clean from whatever safe place I’d stored it.
And by 3pm, the joint was smelling Oxy-fresh.
And I was fascinated by the amount of dirt that can be extracted from freshly vacuumed carpet. Whoah.
So, the dairy debacle worked in our favor.
Now we walk down our front stairs with that, “Ah, look at our fresh carpet” feeling, and it seriously wouldn’t have happened were it not for my ill-conceived grocery conveyance methods.
The lesson: Sometimes you drop the milk.
You cuss and feel angry. And then it causes you to do something you’ve been putting off for a long time, and you end up with fresh, clean carpet.
What’s a carpet cleaner equivalent in your life?
What I discovered was this: it only took 7 minutes to set up the cleaner, and then I was off, sweating and working out my frustrations on the carpet dirt. Very exciting.
We get hung up about that first step — it’s going to take sooooo loooong to get set up.
But just do one thing.
Action creates more action. And before you know it, you’re committed to something your heart’s been wanting to do, and you have to come through, and you’ll be so grateful you did.
Because you know — there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Love much,
Dan
PPSHere’s a brief Joni moment from Friday, grabbed some time before teaching seminar to try some things with “A Case of You.” In A-flat like the 2000 Both Sides Now Concept Album, and using simple chord rhythms a lot like Brandi Carlile’s covers of the song — love her, duh.
PPPS Do you know about Mountain Rug Cleaning in the UK? They have over a MILLION YouTube subs!! You won’t believe how captivating it is to watch someone wash and restore seemingly unsalvageable rugs.
One time a director I respected said after an opening night, “Dan, you know what you’re doing. You just have to trust yourself.”
It meant a lot to me. And I immediately asked in my head, “Can someone please tell me how exactly one goes about trusting oneself?”
(I would go on to several years of doing just the opposite.)
When it came to career stuff, I searched and waited for this substantial self-belief I heard folks talking about.
Believe in yourself!
Look in the mirror and say in a low breathy yoga teacher voice, “I am a powerful, successful, cosmic star of stage and screen with an EGOT and nice enough abs.”
(I did have an agent one time instruct me to pull up my shirt to assess my belly, so this was a thing.)
But this feeling of invincible confidence never alighted, and I walked around thinking something must be wrong and that I might not belong in the places I wanted to sing after all.
I mean, those folks had nicer and much more smoldery headshots.
Generating all this anxiety juice was a belief I’d picked up. Maybe it was Mr. Rogers saying I was special combined with singing “One Moment in Time” in 7th grade chorus. Whatever its origin, this credo permeated everything.
Here it is:
I have to believe in myself.
This one tripped me up for years. Still does.
Where did my self belief go? I’m sure I left it right here.
So elusive.
Whoah, I must have said that out loud because here’s a news story in my Google feed about “7 Ways to Achieve Unstoppable Belief in Yourself.”
And this online course.
Oh, and YouTube heard, too.
Thanks, nosy algorithm. You always know what to serve up so that I can deceive myself that I’m making steps toward my soul’s longing through constant input, research, and notification checking.
Seriously, though, there’s that belief, right?
I need to believe in myself.
I don’t think you do.
We waste a lot of energy and brain glucose trying to conjure a Marvel hero mind-state when we could just start repeating a lyric and seeing how it lights up in our imagination.
That would be one building block of a song you’d have added to your artistic structure, and it also adds stone and mortar to something that does indeed come in handy:
CONFIDENCE
Wait. Belief? Confidence? Samesies, right?
Nope.
Confidence comes from the Latin meaning with (con) trust (fidere).
When you trust something, there’s usually a basis for that trust.
And the basis for that trust is your skill.
And in order to build your skill, you have to show up regularly and do the things that build that skill.
And in order to show up, the only thing you need to believe is that if you keep doing the things that lead to vocal freedom, expressive honesty, and creative fulfillment, you’ll sing great, open your heart, and do work that satisfies you.
None of this requires you to believe in yourself.
In fact, as soon as you stop requiring yourself to have this assurance, you can start doing the simple (not easy) work of daily noise making, story telling, and then sharing it with folks.
And anywhere you start is fine.
One action, even if it needs some prerequisites, will reveal what you need to go back and bolster, and you can take it from there.
It’s messy. It’s frustrating. And it’s worth it.
Because while I don’t think you need to believe IN yourself, the thing that’s crucial is to believe yourself.
This means noticing when your body vibrates with excitement and possibility. And when it contracts.
And actually listening to that. It’ll lead you in all kinds of unexpected directions.
I’ve noticed lately that I’ve been ignoring my body brain in favor of my noggin brain, and it’s caused a lot of futile trying and anxiety.
When I’ve tuned in and acknowledged what my body’s vibing — that I want to share more singing in more places — I don’t know how it’s all happening, but things are already flowing.
I’ll keep you posted on that.
In the meantime, please take a sec to check in with your own body. Is the path you picked feeling good in your cells? It’s not a joke. You came to the planet with a good guidance system. I invite us to use it.
Because it’s true — there is only one you and only one me. And folks need to hear the story only we can sing.
When I was in the UK right after college, Tom and Joanna Gillium took me in like one of their own.
I was their 22-year-old adoptee getting thrown in the Ford Transit van with their 5 kiddos, and it was terrific.
I dropped stuffed animal bombs over the stair railing with their five year old, Tim. I played ping-pong with Hugh. Felt completely lost trying to keep up with Rosie and Ali quoting Ali G at the lunch table, and felt even more lost when their eldest, Ed, tried to teach me about football. ⚽️
They fed me lunch almost every Sunday, took me along to Kensington Gardens to walk their dog Buxton, hooked me up with a room in a beautiful house (while my rent went to charity), and got me a terrific pub job where my love of cooking took off.
They were a major influence in my life and cultivated my value for hospitality and folks getting together to eat.
One summer, they invited me to spend some days with them at their family’s house in the North York Moors.
What a stunning place. We hiked, we ate, we drink whiskey in front of the fire, and we had a terrific day by the sea in Runswick (which I mistakenly called Bruswick for many years). Most of that village got to hear my primal howl when I breached into the water — still frigid in August.
I noticed by about day three of my Yorkshire holiday I started to get twitchy.
I felt guilty about all of this rest and leisure I was enjoying. And I looked at my sweet Gillums, and I wondered how exactly were they able to rest they way they did. It looked that way to me, anyway.
But I noticed it then — I couldn’t chill the boop out.
I still haven’t earned my merit badge for hammock swinging.
Last Friday we went to hang out with the family of one of Noah’s preschool friends (what if we could love and hug each other like 5-year-old besties ps? — so sweet).
Dad Brendan’s from Massachusetts, Irish heritage, and Mom Gabi is from Brazil. There were other Brazilian friends there, and ridiculously good food.
When we arrived I was frazzled, stressed, tired, and real prickly, thinking about all the work I wasn’t getting done.
After we left, I said, “We clearly needed some Brazilian friends.”
How can you be stressed with delicious steak, a beer, and bossa nova playing?
This lesson is showing up for me. It walks in gently and invites me to rest. I usually refuse the invite.
But it’s so crucial. I’m seeing this. Maybe.
And there are glimpses recently that when I do RSVP yes, work-related blessings from surprise sources fly in the door. Funny.
This week we’ve been invited to visit our friends at a beautiful lake in New Hampshire.
I’m DETERMINED I’m going to RELAX :).
Seriously, though, pray for me, saints. I miss moments of beauty, wonder, thank-you, and wow on a regular basis because I think that person is really waiting for my email reply.
I’m not that important, and what terrific information.
Anne Lamott wrote, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes… Including you.”
I’m gonna take her advice. I’m inviting you to as well.
(And don’t do what I do here — relax with a PURPOSE — I’m gonna relax so I can….. See? I need help. Lordt.)
I’ll keep you posted.
In the meantime, in the next few days, where can you dedicate some moments to genuine turn-off-your-phone rest time? I’d love to hear what you cook up. I need recipes.
And do remember there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Some days through a string of lessons, I’ll get super passionate about meeting your childhood survival tension with understanding or setting yourself free to make crazy noises, and I’ll drop an f-bomb or 12.
It’s my favorite one — It’s got that terrific fricative at the beginning, all manner of ways to shape the vowel, and ends with the fireworks of a voiceless velar plosive.
People say it’s uncreative and base.
Maybe.
It’s like Froot Loops.
My mama wisely didn’t buy them. (She was also on the front of the whole wheat bread train; I envied Greg Varney’s white-bread-no-crust bologna sammies in 4th grade.)
But once I had more agency over what was part of my complete breakfast, I couldn’t get enough high fructose corn syrup, chemical color, and questionably sourced grain circles down my gullet.
I’ve eased off of the cereals that leave an itchy film on your hard palate, but I still partake in regular profanity.
I also pray. I mean listen. When I’m stumped, I’ll get quiet, close my eyes, and I’ll see if any info bubbles up in my guts, some guidance on what would be most helpful for you.
Sometimes I’ll tell you how I follow Jesus, but that’s normally to clarify why I believe the greatest power in the universe is born of vulnerability. Or the only explanation I got of how the blind blunders in my life have somehow turned to gold.
There’s a long list of whys because it connects to everything for me.
I used to go to this psychic in Studio City, and every time I walked in, she’d laugh and say Jesus was with me again.
You’ve heard me talk about how New York City diner menus. They overwhelm me. I mean, who can choose between blintzes and a BLT?
(I’m remembering a woman I waited on at Artie’s Delicatessen who ordered French toast and followed it up with a slice of carrot cake. She didn’t have any problems choosing.)
I finally developed a technique of deciding the category of food I’d order BEFORE walking into the diner, and that helped.
But I’ve found that my menu overwhelm syndrome creeps up in other areas of my life.
And I’ll tell you why.
We get NYC menu-level info hurled at us every day. That is, you do if you get as attached to that little computer rectangle in your pocket with the candy-colored squares on its adorable little screen as I do.
Lately it’s been the YouTubes.
I told you last week about how I’m all about that INPUT. (Did you do your Clifton Strengths? They’re helpful, right?)
Input’s a wonderful trait for an educator. And it’s a PARALYZING flaw when you’re just trying to put one foot in front of the other toward that thing you decided was a priority.
But you get surfing on one algorithm wave, and all of a sudden you’re like,
oooooh, wait, maybe I need to break this all down in an Asana work flow. Hmmmmm. Will the free version be okay? How much money have I spent on software this year? No. Just use your paper checklist that’s been working. Did I pull those tasks from my Google Calendar? What about the bullet journal? How do these people post on Instagram so much? SHOULD we buy land and building and off-grid community with rentable yurts and compost toilets?
?
Then Melissa’s like, “Sweetie, you need some time? What’s up?”
And I’m all like, “Where do I even BEGIN? It’s MADNESS in here, I tell you! It all started with blintzes.
Melissa threw me a life preserver, though. ? (She may have gently aimed it at my head.)
She brought my brain back to our lived-in kitchen and toy-strewn living room and reminded me, “The summer’s gonna be over soon. Let’s enjoy this time we have together.”
Thank you, sweetie. It was so clear and simple.
I’m having a hard time appreciating the present lately. My brain flies off in the future, and the future looks like a diner menu with much higher prices.
So, these are some things I’m doing to help my brain.
Feeling wonky? How can you get back to HERE?
You’re gonna roll your eyes, but the answer almost all the time is paying attention to your breath. And it’s paying attention to your breath longer than you want to. I want to take exactly one and a half deepish inhales and feel balanced again.
Nope. It takes a little longer to travel from Agitation Station to Clarity Town.
The other thing is to notice things around you on purpose. And name them to yourself. The wall color, the birds you may hear, the loud train or smell of subway track grease. This helps. (Also key in an audition room.)
This, too, takes longer than I want it.
Siri, “Make me present, calm, and serene!”
One other thing: Phone a friend. Literally pick up that rectangle computer and call somebody. This, for some reason, is hard to do these days. Especially because we all assume something’s wrong when we get an actual phone call. So, maybe send a prelim text.
This is also especially hard for folks like me who want to solve everything inside the ole brain. One day I’ll accept this doesn’t work.
One other simplifying question that’s helped me is from James Clear’s book Atomic Habits.
It’s a question of identity.
If you want your identity to be someone who’s healthy and vibrant, you can ask yourself, “What would a healthy and vibrant person do?”
I’d drink a glass of water. I’d get out for a walk. I’d take some time to stretch.
If you ask yourself what you’d like your identity to be, you can then ask, “What would this kind of person do?” We almost always know. It’s just that the steps are often so simple, our brain’s like, “It can’t be that straightforward. Yawn. What’s on YouTube?”
That brings me to the next helpful thing: Getting where you want to go means doing simple/boring things over and over.
It’s not shiny and entertaining. It’s satisfying.
Once you stop expecting constant amusement to be a thing, you can start humming and stretching and learning that song you picked out for the cabaret you decided to put together (even though you feel scared. I always do.)
Then when you show up for the thing, those days and days of practice are in your body. That’s where confidence comes from, the skill you built.
The other one that’s helpful and very hard for me is seasons.
Right now is the time for — fill in your blank.
Right now is not the time in my life when I can do a lot of 730pm dinner meetups. I’ve got to put my boys to sleep mid-chapter of the next Chronicles of Narnia book.
Let’s review:
? Breathe for as long as it takes.
?? Notice things around you for as long as it takes.
? Connect in a real time present way with somebody you trust.
? Ask yourself, “What would a kind-of-person-I-want-to-be do?”
?? Then do it. Over and over, and look for the satisfaction not the entertainment.
? And notice what season you’re in.
Hope this was helpful for you. I’ll keep you posted.
In the meantime, you know what I’m fixing to say: There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
I’m going to tell you the reasons folks you think are demonstrably average seem to work all the time.
And I’m also going to tell you how this information will make your auditions and overall creative expression more successful.
One time I was doing a show, and one of the leads was offensively average. Company members noticed. Crew noticed. I definitely noticed.
Management were delighted with them.
To seal the deal, this artist spoke matter of factly about their inherent belonging in the principal player echelons. (I think this was more of an anxiety thing than arrogance to be fair.)
I was an ensemble member, and (funny enough after just criticizing what this person said out loud), I thought I should be playing a principal role, too.
I worked with an acting coach at the time who saw the show, and I’ll never forget what she said:
“They stood for their work.”
What do you mean? They stood for their work?
It meant this:
They weren’t asking for anybody’s permission; they owned their performance, and there wasn’t any whiff of a question in the air whether or not they should be wearing those costumes and singing those songs.
Dammit.
This lights up a major lie that performers tell themselves. Wreaks havoc in general life, too: The Just World Belief.
Good things mean good outcomes. Bad = bad. And the world should be fair.
Extensive studies on both combat veterans and abuse survivors show that holding to this belief increases and prolongs PTSD symptoms.
Now please think about one actor acquaintance who carries this just world belief into every audition room.
Every table of deciders now holds the weight of universal justice in their hands, and with every heartbreaking opportunity, more evidence piles up with how unfair the world is.
The truth is — auditioning is not (and can’t) be a meritocracy. It’s decided by humans, and we are notoriously fickle. And it’s not a fair process.
I remember not booking a tour of Les Miserables and crying on my therapist’s couch because it was a dream of mine,
so I was sad.
But there was also a part of me that believed it should be my turn, and I deserved to get picked.
My advice — question this belief.
And notice the things in your life that work out well, when the odds skew ever in your favor.
We get so focused on how life has slighted us, we forget to notice that we can see, hear, walk, and have food to eat.
Dang, I still remember the time a cop just let me go in North Hollywood for talking on my Blackberry without a hands free contraption. She even said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this. These phones make me so mad.”
The next reason for all this audition mayhem is a very human thing that no one’s ever going to change — Middle School.
I’ll explain.
You’ve written a play, and you need folks. Who do you think of first? Your friends, people you KNOW.
If you have to look outside your familiar circle for roles or production support, what do you do? You ask your friends if they know somebody.
What are you looking for?
Someone who’s competent, kind, detail oriented and lives for stage management.
Can you imagine if you were interviewing a company manager, and the candidate said:
?? Can you give me a chance to solve your problem? I mean, I don’t know how I’ll solve it, but just pick me?
or
? Problem? I don’t see a problem here. And I’m amazing, so yeah, here I am. (Sits back and puts shod feet on desk.)
OR
? Hey there. I get it — I see your problem. I’ve solved a lot of these before, and here’s how I can help you solve yours.
Who are you gonna sling a contract at that second and pray they’re available?
Yet actors often bring in versions 1 and 2 into rooms and then get frustrated that their results are crap.
It’s human to want people to pick you for stuff. We want to be chosen. It’s a natural and good desire. When my wife puts her hand on my back and says, “I love you,” I mean, that’s the stuff.
But if we’re talking about getting picked for shows, you need do 1 of 2 things:
Create positive emotional associations to yourself,
OR
pick yourself.
Then create positive emotional associations to yourself. Because no matter how much you pick yourself, if you’re an asshole, no one will want to be in the trenches with you.
If this feels middle school, it’s because it is — because guess what middle schools are full of? People, just younger with under-developed prefrontal cortices.
This bears out in many rehearsal halls, too.
So what can you DO about this? How can you make your auditions and creative life more successful?
First, we are going to define a successful audition:
A successful audition means you prepare well, share the work with artistry, skill, and an open heart, and accomplish the goal you set for yourself in that meeting. It’s a clear preview of how you’d solve a casting problem, and it’s also a glimpse into the straightforward joy it will be to work with you.
That’s it. There’s no outcome component. You’re not going to get the job. Most of the jobs, we don’t get, so dispose of the lie that you have any direct control whatsoever over manipulating a casting decider into picking you.
For more on this, and to really set yourself free, read Audition Psych 101 by Michael Kostroff.
So, to have this successful audition, do this:
Number one, the folks you’re pissed about? Stop paying attention to them. They have nothing to do with you except what you can learn from them.
Number 2, this one’s real simple, but people discount it because it’s not shiny enough.
PREPARE THE SHIT OUT OF IT — and I mean prepare the shit out of it. This means that although you are holding your papers, you’re off book. You have your pitches, rhythms and lyrics in your body because you’ve taken the time to do it.
You understand this person you’re being on a cellular, empathetic, and experiential level.
Confidence only comes from competence, and that comes from your current skill level plus PREP.
And put yourself in the table people’s shoes — how do you feel when the person comes in PREPPED and READY? Exactly — good.
And go ahead and let this boost your ego. If you know you work harder than other folks, let that fuel you. Know that it will pay off because it has to in some way.
The same way that you don’t look for completely fair and equal measures based on your input and output, you can also know that there’s still cause-and-effect in the world.
If you put in the work, if you give away incredible work in the audition room, you’re going to get results. It can only have a compound interest.
If you go in and share fantastic skill with someone who makes casting decisions, and that particular project isn’t a fit for you, you’ve built up artistic goodwill with that decider. It’s just human that they’ll want to pay you back for your investment with them with more opportunities for future projects.
Ego is like butter, salt, heat, and sugar — a little conscious and measured addition in your recipe goes a long way.
Number 2A is also important, and that’s this: Be good.
Have a sober and humble estimation of your skills.
Video yourself. Get a good ears on your voice. Get a wise, incisive and kind acting coach on your storytelling.
What are your blind spots? What are your blocks?
Get in there and work on them and become the electric malleable and expressive performer that you yourself can trust to tell a story with honesty and power. If you know, you can do that, imagine the difference that will make when you walk into a room to share your solution to a casting problem.
And Number 3 —
Have something rich and meaningful going on in your life besides this audition.
Your performing career needs to thrive inside a rich and meaningful life. What do you have going on that gives life to you in life to those around you?
Sit down and write down what’s truly most important to you. Who are your people? Who do you love and who loves you?
And this is dramatic, but effective, and let’s face it, we’re dramatic. When you’re on your deathbed, is this audition or this show opportunity going to be the thing you’re thinking about?
If you’re at an appointment and you know that you have a writers’ meeting later that day on the project that you’ve put together or you’re going to meet up with that friend you haven’t seen in a long time, it’ll set you free to put things in context, and you won’t put value on things that you don’t need to put value on.
What is valuable is your preparation and showing up with excellence so that you prove to yourself that you’re a skilled and generous performer, who has a rich depth of artistry to bring to the table.
So, back to those folks booking all those jobs who clearly don’t deserve it and fill you with indignation. Here are some possibilities to weigh:
Maybe they’re better than you think they are. And maybe just because you understand what a good performance entails doesn’t mean that you’re delivering that yourself. I remember when I realized the gap between my intellectual understanding of the thing and my actual physical execution of that same thing. Ouch. And thank God.
Notice what’s in their energy. It might just be bravado, but there’s something in their energy that communicates “I don’t need this.” They’re not thirsty for connection at the party.
And remember, you don’t know their life. You’re judging a performance aesthetic and skill set, and you’re attaching meaning to their character. Stop doing that. Number one, it’s not your business, and number two, it’s a waste of your time while you could be working a messa di voce exercise to get your head and chest voice making terrific friends.
Comes back to work my acting coach Elizabeth said that time.
You’ve got to stand for yourself, and I’m convinced that having the skill, competence, and preparation underneath you is what will give you a substantial foundation that you can plant your feet on. Do that over and over, and great results will show up in your audition in creative life.
So get in there and do the work. There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story on the you can sing. Now go sing.
The question that gets a stumped pause from me now:
“What are you reading?”
Rarely an answerable question for a parent of young children.
My audio book game is strong, though, and I will pop on my new bone conduction headphones (thanks Aunt Sherri!) while I’m emptying the dishwasher to scratch my input itch.
(You know about Clifton Strengths? It’s a tool that tells you what your natural are.)
I always forget mine, but I remember at the top of the list is INPUT. ?
I love to know things, find out things, learn things. And tell YOU about the things.
So I’m sharing some of the most meaningful input sources in my life with you: books.
In no particular order, here you go:
Walking on Water by Madeleine L’Engle
From the author of A Wrinkle in Time, this book reflects on L’Engle’s lifelong integration of faith and art.
A few small phrases from this book are always in my pocket when I need context or a little light to see my way.
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
This correspondence between the German poet and a young artist represents a mentorship we all wish we could have.
Makes me long for how we used to get letters, read them a few times, and let their words live in our imaginations while we waited for the next one to arrive.
If you never read the book, there’s a terrific quote to store in your heart:
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue.
“Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything.
“Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
So brilliant and so frustrating. A thought like that’s not going to get a lot of clicks these days.
An Everlasting Meal by Tamar Adler
I’ve told you about this book before. I love it. And there’s a cookbook now.
The book comes from Adler’s blog. She used to cook at Chez Panisse in Berkeley, and the way she writes about bread, beans, and boiling vegetables makes you want to fill up a pot with salty water and get going.
Its theme is based on an earlier book written during the Depression called How to Cook a Wolf. You’ll never look at your chopped-off onion ends the same way again.
And if you like braised beef, you won’t find a better way to do it than in this book. Risotto, too.
Anything by Anthony Doerr
This year I listened to Cloud Cuckoo Land and All the Light We Cannot See on my walks from the train to work.
When you hear a novelist create such specific and diverse worlds and connect them in such unexpected and inevitable ways, it’s evidence that there’s beauty in the world and goodness and truth in the human imagination.
Both of these books are masterful.
Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown
This book is so important for storytellers — it breaks down the nuance and facets of language we use for emotion.
When our language is clear, connection happens. (Her explanation of the difference between envy and jealousy is fascinating.)
And don’t forget — there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.
Love much,
Dan
PS You know your Clifton Strengths? Tell me! I looked mine up again — Input, Empathy, Positivity, Developer, Adaptability
PPS And something to think about — What has it looked like to live a question? What questions are you living right now?
Our Noah bear’s already had his share of dental adventures in his 5 years.
I’ll spare you the saga, but I’m grateful we found a terrific pediatric dentist who’s a menschela with the hands of a micro surgeon. I don’t know if a micro surgeon is a thing, but Dr. Eliasberg would be that.
We’d come through the last of the procedures requiring the “sharp water” (There’s a whole mystery deception language they use with the kids, and it’s brilliant.), when one morning I was brushing Noah’s teeth, and I saw behind a lower incisor ANOTHER tooth growing in.
Wha?
This is a thing that happens. The permanent tooth sometimes wants to make an appearance before the kid tooth gives itself to the Tooth Fairy coffers.
Lordt.
We called Dr. E. What was just going to be a routine cleaning was going to need to be an extraction so the new teeth had somewhere to go.
Dr. E worked her magic again, and Noah emerged from the chair not only okay but proud of his new look. And excited about the milkshake in his future.
That evening, we were out of singles, so while I taught, Melissa put together the mystical dental exchange gift.
She used the only bill she had in her wallet — a cold fresh 20.
And she nested it in its own little ziplock bag surrounded by copper colored glitter.
We’re setting a pretty high tooth bar, here, aren’t we? I mean, I felt lucky when the Magic Molar Maven remembered to drop a quarter under my pillow.
He had been through the tooth wars, though. So sure. Ok.
I slipped in and performed the exchange —which was a challenge. Let’s just say I’m not going to be moonlighting as a cat burglar or a forest tracker anytime soon.
The next morning Noah and Jude came downstairs, Noah holding up his gift with his lower gap beaming.
“Daddy! She came! And she brought me GLITTER!”
Magic was real.
And it was — to see the delight on this kid’s face.
“There is something else in there,” I told him.
He looked closer. “Oh, a message?”
I informed him that there was also a rectangle of green paper representing monetary energy included in his gift. I didn’t tell him it was a 20. The whole dental euphemism glossary has sent me off on a deceit rampage, it seems.
But what would it be to be thrilled by a ziplock snack size of copper colored glitter under your pillow?
I wish for you to have a moment when something feels magical like that today.
And I hope the Tooth Fairy’s fresh out of coins and small bills.
