A few months ago, embittered and full of complaints, I whined to a friend of mine that I couldn't book a show to save my life. Instead of commiserating with me, he wanted to know why I didn't just take the power back into my own hands. Why sit there bitching when you can do something about it? You can't force casting directors to cast you but you don't have to rely on them for everything. You can create your own opportunity.
It pissed me off to hear someone put it like that. It made me feel lazy. And lazy, I am not.
I started brainstorming things I could do to give myself back a sense of control.
A few days later, in one of my music theatre coaching classes a friend of mine passed me a note that said, "I'm thinking of putting on a cabaret."
I wrote back, "ME TOO."
"Let's make sure we stick to it," she wrote.
"YOU ARE ON!"
And the deed was done.
...
I wrote the entire script in one sitting. I tend to write in long spurts whether it's an essay, a script or a blog post. It's hard for me to leave it mid-way through. I seem just barrel on to the end and then go back and revise at a later point or, if I'm impatient, not at all. I settled on the topic of my family for my cabaret, figuring I had some pretty decent comedic material to work with. In fact, I had to pick and choose because there ended up being so many stories I wanted to include.
The songs came next. I made a list of songs I knew I had to sing, things I'd always wanted to do, things that fit in between stories perfectly. The song list ended up being the most permanent thing in the entire process. Since the first time I scribbled them down on a piece of scrap paper, none of the songs were cut and none of them were moved around. And just like that, you can see how my mind works and what I am most comfortable with--someone else's stuff.
The stories were different. They were harder for me. I wrote them out (or cut and pasted from here) and then modified. But they were still too wordy. I wrote them as a writer instead of as a speaker. I was too close to it to see that there needed to be major splices and revisions. And frankly, it meant too much to me to cut it up. I had written every single word so I needed to keep it like that. How could I edit it? It was mine! It was great!
When someone bluntly suggested I cut down the verbosity and make major changes, shit hit the fan.
As usual, I rallied my army of friends around me and fretted, "WHAT DO I DO? THIS SHOW SUCKS!"
Their answer? Make it better.
...
Tom offered to read the script and send it back to me with notes. We went over it while on the phone with each other, piece by piece, paragraph by paragraph. We analyzed where jokes landed, how they were set up, whether or not the stories fit into the theme of the piece. I went to bed every night exhausted, my mind a jumble of sentences and one-liners and letters, all floating around getting scrambled up.
On top of this, every week, I met with my accompanist to sing through songs and work material. Every Tuesday evening, I brought him a new script, revised, slashed, rearranged. He would gently take it from my hands and then give me ideas for the songs. What would be playing underneath the stories? When should he come in? How could we add more comedy? How could we simplify it?
I wanted someone to tell me the answers to these questions. I wanted someone to guide me, "Okay, when you tell this story, move over here. Tilt your head like that. Let this part be about this." I was used to someone directing me. I was used to saying someone else's words. I did not know what to do with my own. It was hard for me to trust myself. Yeah, sure, my mom finds me amusing but would anyone else? If I put myself on a stage with my own stories and songs that were precious to me, would anyone laugh? Would anyone react at all?
...
Meeting with my accompanist was my favorite part of the process. Together, we found a lot of laughter within the music and that felt most comfortable to me. The telling of stories felt a little odd, especially when rehearsing them for no one. (Observation: When you tell a story to a room full of no one, there is no reaction. WHO KNEW?) But the songs always felt right; I always raced through the stories to get to the part where I could just relax and sing.
As the process went on, it startled me to realize that my confidence in the project faltered instead of strengthened. The beginning was the best part when I thought I was the most Brilliant Writer of Cabaret There Ever Was. As time went on, the more feedback and help I sought out, the more discouraged I was. I stopped including "I AM GETTING SO EXCITED!" in my e-mails. In actuality, I felt continually defeated.
I kept struggling to keep my head up, to accept criticism with an open mind and to really push through to make it the best it could be. It was so difficult as I invited a select few trusted individuals to watch it and give me notes. I hated that I hadn't gotten it perfect from the get-go. I wanted the first draft to be flawless. I wanted people to tell me it was brilliant and hilarious and absolutely genius.
No one did. They told me to slow down. They pointed out funny moments I was skipping over. They told me certain things didn't flow, didn't make sense, weren't working right. Loosen your stance, be more conversational, TAKE YOUR TIME, that doesn't fit with the theme, that's not specific enough. I hated the tweaking, I hated that there was always more to improve upon, I wanted it to be easy.
...
Two days before the show opened, I sat across from my friend JK sobbing into some vegetable dumplings at a Thai restaurant. My hormones were pulling me into a dark place, I was exhausted, I was stressed out, I was sick of trying to make it as strong as possible. I let myself go to the place all actors inevitably go to at some point--the point where you honestly believe that You Are Not Enough and You Never Will Be.
I am cute but I am not beautiful.
I am thin but my stomach sticks out.
I can sing on key but I cannot hit X note, I cannot sing like so-and-so, I cannot sound blah blah blah.
I'm a good actor but I can't act like She can.
I am amusing but I am not Funny. I have decent timing but Not Like That.
This is why I don't book shows, because I'm Not Good Enough, I Don't Stand Out, I'm Not Specific, I'm All Wrong, I Will Never Be Taken Seriously, There Is No Point To This.
And JK listened to every single one of these fears. He just let me go, spewing my insecurities across the dinner table. And when I was finished and sat there, wiping my eyes with a cloth napkin, he gently started speaking and gave solid proof that every single doubt was unfounded. He told me what I already knew-- that comparison is the worst game an actor can play. If I did the best I could do, that had to be enough because that was all there was.
"Laura, it's called a play because that's what we're doing. We're playing. So, if you do anything on Thursday night, anything at all, just one thing, please: find the joy in it."
...
Thursday, I left work around noon. I went home and did anything I could think of to relax myself. I baked cupcakes for the waitstaff, I sat on the bathroom counter with my feet in the sink and did my make up. I did a twenty-five minute vocal warm up, I stretched and before I knew it, it was time to go.
I did a sound check, I chatted with the lighting guy, I paid the lady who showed up to videotape it. People began arriving at 6:30 and I calmly ducked into the dressing room to change. I could hear them entering, I could sense the place filling up, I took deep breaths and chatted with my accompanist. We stood laughing in the dressing room eating potato chips and drinking lots of water. And in a flash, the lights went out, my name was announced and someone was escorting me up on a stage.
I had told myself numerous times before that I was going to be nervous. Accept the nervousness. Your legs will shake, the first song might be wonky, but eventually, you will settle into it. To my surprise, I stepped up on the stage, looked out into the darkness and realized that I wasn't really nervous at all. It was as if I had slipped into my favorite pair of pajamas. Something clicked in me and I remember thinking, "Ohhhh, there you are."
I couldn't see a single person and I wanted to soak up the moment as much as I could. I remember people clapping, the piano tinkling an intro and finally me grasping the microphone, staring straight ahead and simply saying, "HOORAY."
And then I started the show.
...
I was unprepared for the laughter. So much laughter. I had told the stories so many times (to no one!) that I had forgotten something so basic: the fact that they were actually funny. I was unprepared for my off-script banter. I felt like someone else and perhaps I was. My brain temporarily switched to "PERFORMER LAURA" and out of nowhere, I was witty and put-together and endearing. Yes, it's quite possible I had morphed into someone else entirely.
I tried so many times over the course of the hour to just breathe. Feel the heat of the lights on my face, connect with the accompanist, take a sip of water, open my arms, allow all that beautiful yellow and pink energy to flow right through me. My family and friends astounded me, their support humbling me throughout the course of the night. I could feel their excitement, their pride and their belief in me. It touched me in a way that I have never been touched when doing a musical or ensemble piece. They were giving and giving and giving and I was the only one there to receive it. It overwhelmed me.
Two thirds of the way through my show I thought, "It's almost over. BE PRESENT BE PRESENT BE PRESENT." Before I knew it, there was applause and I was thanking people and I was being led down the stairs and back to the dressing room. I stared into the mirror and the woman staring back at me was unrecognizable. She was elated, ecstatic, proud, radiant. She was not cowering or defeated or inadequate. She was enough.
...
The compliments and kind words from everyone afterwards will stay with me forever. I welled up with tears as I approached everyone, so many arms outstretched to me, so many people wanting to pull me close and tell me how much they loved me. I wanted to say so many things to so many people but all I could manage was a meek, "Thank you so much for being here."
I received so many genuine accolades, so many eloquent compliments. There was one that was repeated, one that I heard from family and friends and acquaintances alike. It vibrated my soul and I still can't shake it as it races from my head to my toes, ringing me from top to bottom. "I am so proud to know you."
I wanted to say, "No, I'm so proud to know you." Proud to know nearly 75 people who showed up to laugh and cheer and clap and sweep me into their arms and pet my hair and give a girl who only wants to be loved so much love that she wants to drink it in forever. I felt validated and empowered and appreciated and adored.
I lay in bed last night feeling a combination of exhaustion and elation. I replayed the evening over and over in my head. In the darkness, I believed in myself. It was a feeling of sweet sweet reward. The time, effort, money, frustrations, doubts, were all worth it as I lay there alone. I didn't feel lonely. In fact, I felt like I was the only one I ever needed.
Right before I drifted off to sleep, I felt peaceful, secure, content. The best part was that I had given myself that gift by persevering and reaching outside my comfort zone. "To build self-confidence, you need to take risks." And I had done it, with the help of others, yes, but in the end, it was all on my shoulders. And I pulled it off. Just me. I am more than enough. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to realize that.
