What seems like many years ago but was in fact only “pre-pandemic”, I was a theater professional. I directed plays, burlesque, performed Shakespeare, and made weird performance art pieces.
I don’t make much theater any more, which is a very long and separate post. I shifted to writing in the Fall of 2019, just before the whole world was required to stop making theater for a while. It was a gentle, quiet exit.
While storytelling— however one may define that— is paramount in both mediums, when it comes to form and process, in comparing theater and writing I see mostly differences, as one can observe by this graphic I spent too much time making in the advanced graphic creator: Canvà
I’ll reserve my opinions on the quality of my theater-making for my therapist, but when it came to the process theater, I worked at an expert level. I was in my first show I was sixteen (Whore 1 in Les Misérables— a stunning performance by a late bloomer with painted-on cleavage) and from there I spent decades learning how to do theater without thinking of it as learning because I loved it so dearly. I was also young, able-bodied, had low overhead, could work for free, and was supported by family and community. My formal education in theater spanned almost two decades, hundreds of classes, certifications, workshops, two degrees, and a cute lil’ mountain of debt.
When I started writing seriously, I didn’t expect it to be easy, but I had hoped some skills would be transferable. I’ve journaled since I was a tiny human and did some writing for theater. I had no problem generating words on a page, but 2019 was the first time I approached writing with the specific intention of having other humans read it. I had no idea how to go from words on a page to getting said page in front of a reader, which, as it turns out, is most of the process.
Luckily, I’m a real slut for education, and signed up for every class I could afford. I heard words like, “querying” and “proposal” and “pitch” and began to know the wide world of things I did not know. Classes also soothed the solitary aspect of writing, giving me the opportunity to ask other writers about their process: How long should an 800 word short humor piece take to write and edit? How many times do you revise a manuscript? How do you revise a manuscript? The answer to every question is, very helpfully, “It depends.”
I’ve been surprised by the difficulty and often paralyzed by the act of re-writing and editing (are they the same? Are they different? We are out here LEARNING). When I’m setting down blocking in theater, it’s clear to me whether or not something is working. It works because I can see everyone on stage that needs to be seen, or the stage picture shows me something about power dynamics or relationships. It doesn’t work if I can’t see all the performers, if it’s anticipating a reveal that’s coming up, or if I’m not able to pay attention to the dialogue and the movement at the same time.
While these things feel intuitive in a theater space, editing/re-writing/making anything by myself is less intuitive, and I’m less kind to myself than I am to performers, who I find endlessly inspiring and fun. A performer tries something that doesn’t work and I can say, “That’s great! Your delivery of that line is so funny, I want to be sure we can see and hear you when you say it— will you make your cross shorter and turn back to us before you start speaking? Also, I love you and think you smell nice!” When I write a sentence that’s not clear I scream, “Wow this is trash trash trash garbage on fire terrible and I will never be able to fix something so shitty and awful.” Even with garbage to start with, I’m only now starting to get over the fear of re-writing a sentence. What if it was better before? What if I don’t know how to go back? How many copies can I make of this draft before I’m officially unhinged?
This fear of “not messing things up” in theater feels easier to avoid. Theater is ephemeral, so nothing is exactly the same twice, regardless of how hard we try. Trying something new feels like a low stakes endeavor. Asking a performer, “Will you try this instead of that?” is an easy proposal— equally as easy as saying, “That didn’t work! Let’s do it the first way!”
So much of this is about practice. I’m quick to dismiss my decades of formal theater education and breadth of experience of working on fully staged proscenium productions to shows in rowdy bars to experimental work that ambled around town. “That cute lil’ twenty years? That was just having fun!” And it’s easy (or necessary?) for me to forget that in those two decades, especially in the first five years, I made plenty of bad theater! Some might even say, “A LOT.” Getting better at things takes time, and what I’m focusing on revising/editing/re-writing lately is my process and approach.
Here’s what I’m working on when it comes transposing my theater process to better advance my writing process:
Taking breaks. I rarely worked in an Union house but we took breaks every 80 minutes because that was Equity standard and I believed Equity guidelines were a bare minimum for a healthy rehearsal room. I am SHIT at taking breaks when I’m writing and it manifests by me reaching for my phone or checking my email. I’ve yet to try the pomodoro method, because I hate success, but I’ve been shocked by how effective taking a lil’ break to annoy my cat for a minute or five can be.
Scheduling. I excelled at scheduling in theater, but only began applying it to writing this year. I tend to generate a lot of (bad) ideas, so there are usually too many options of things to work on when I sit down for “writing time”, so I’ve been aiming to predetermine work on fewer things for longer amounts of time. I choose my focuses for the week during designated admin time on Sundays.
Letting it take time. A pre-written, full length play takes 4 weeks of rehearsal time, 4-8 hours a day, 5-6 days a week to complete1. That doesn’t include directorial prep, meeting with designers, line memorization, technical rehearsals, hours of labor in scenic and costume shops, endless work from stage managers, or writing the damn play. I think I can feel okay about spending more that two hours on a short humor piece.
Reading more: Despite my introversion, working with people in theater was inspiring. Myself in front of computer? Less so. Turning to other people’s writing is my new working with people. I’m a slow reader, but that doesn’t change the fact that reading more will make me a better writer. I’ve embraced audio books this year, which has magically helped me pick up more physical books (shout out to
at for championing the audio book).Remembering I’m new. Five years is a significant amount of time, but it’s still a beginning. And that’s an exciting place to be.
Do you have more than one artistic practice? How do your artsy selves talk to or argue or make out with each other? Tell me everything!
Other Updates:
It’s no coincidence that working on theater again was the inspiration for this post. I’m directing a ten-minute comedy with a week of rehearsals spread out over a month and it’s been such a fun return. I’m grateful to work on theater while not staking my entire career, reputation, and self-worth on it.
We traveled a LOT last year, especially given that we moved half way across the country. This year, people are coming to visit and I’m PUMPED to host. Do you have any hosting tips? An experience of being hosted that was amazing? DO YOU WANT TO COME VISIT?!
I just finished Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror: Reflections on self delusion and I will be thinking about it for a long time. I also devoured Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gale Honeyman and loved it. I feel like it was misrepresented in a lot of the advertising— had I known it was so dark and human I might have picked it up sooner. Are you reading anything amazing?
There’s a lot of flexibility here. It truly depends on the contract and the company producing. I’ve worked on a single show for 3 weeks and for 10 weeks. What was your shortest turn around time, fellow thespies?
Beautiful Canva work. Exquisite.
I often think about the difference between theater and writing, and even though my fear of performance keeps me away from the stage, the whole permanence of writing can be a real perfectionist black hole! I also just read Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine btw, and also loved it. There was so much humor in the narrator's observations, despite and maybe even because of the neuroticism.