"I've been working on a one-man show."
I used to say that to friends when they'd ask what I was doing in-between acting assignments. My "one-man show" was this grand idea I had in my head, the perfect synthesis of storytelling and music, focused through my particular sensibilities. I was going to create this masterpiece. Oh yes, it was "in the works."
But whenever anyone would ask exactly when that might be, I couldn't say. "Soon" was my usual answer. Because, really, I had no pressing need to start. And what's more, I had no idea how to do it. But after I wrapped A Flea in Her Ear back in October, the time finally seemed right.
Skip ahead about six months: Now it's May 2008, and I've done two readings of the show. I wrote it, memorized the music, booked space, invited guests, and have successfully created the show I've always talked about. I'm ready to prepare a fully-produced performance.
How the heck did that happen?
Let me first say this: Writing your own show is like having a job that you don't get paid for and which nobody cares if you show up to anyway. It takes an enormous amount of self-determination to make it happen. Because if it doesn't, the only person who suffers is you. The only consequence of not finishing is... well... nothing happens.
Even today, as I write this, I know that if I don't finish that final draft, get the show fully performance-ready, and book a performance date and space, it will end. Right here, right now. Because nobody else is gonna do it.
So okay, backing up.
For the last couple of years, I've been writing these columns, which has been a great joy to me. Creating something of my own, getting favorable reactions — good stuff. At the same time, I've been getting back into playing the piano, something I'd done when I was a kid, but had never really pursued professionally. I loved to play, but it was mostly a private hobby.
First and foremost, I'm an actor and singer. So I wanted my show to showcase all these interests — writing, singing, acting, playing piano. But I didn't want to book a performance space until it was totally ready. Yet I also knew deep down that without a deadline of some sort, I wouldn't even begin work on it. So what was the solution?
"Why don't you just do a reading?" a friend asked one day.
A reading, for those of you not in the know, is a low-pressure tryout for any new show. Instead of a full performance, everything rehearsed and memorized, with tickets and lights and costumes and all that, a reading is just what it sounds like — actors sit on a stage and read from the script. It's a good way for the playwright to see the work performed in front of an audience. To hear what the audience is enjoying and which parts can be cut.
I'd never even thought of doing a reading, but it made total sense! Why worry about what industry people I was going to invite, and where I'd put it on, and how to advertise... before I'd even written a line of dialogue? I was thinking too far ahead. But doing a small reading for some friends/colleagues in a simple rented room with a piano? That I could do!
I got so excited that, right then and there, I decided I was through talking, it was time to do it! So the next day, I emailed a dozen friends, announcing that I was doing a reading of my one-man show in three weeks, and I hoped they all could come. I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and hit 'Send.'
And just like that, it was in motion. My one-man show was happening!
Now I just had to write the thing. Crap!
Which brings me to my first point — accountability. I'd emailed the invitation, so now I was answerable not only to myself, but to the people I'd invited. I couldn't have them show up without being ready, right? I had to produce!
So my advice? When writing a show, or doing anything... have someone to answer to other than yourself. Nothing motivates better than fear.
Okay, so to begin! But... where?
Well, I knew that even though I wanted my show to be unique, it would still fall under the "cabaret" category, simply because there would be a piano and someone singing. So the first thing I did was to think about the cabarets I'd seen before.
Right away, I realized that I generally disliked cabaret where the singer performs a bunch of songs that have nothing to do with each other. I knew that the songs in my show would be there for a reason, to tell a specific part of the story. Like in a musical, I'd get to the point in the narrative where I could no longer just speak about a subject, but I had to sing. And that song would inform where the story went next.
Okay, play with songs, check. But which songs? I'd need songs that I really enjoyed, so I wouldn't get tired of performing them again and again. And in order to avoid the "here's a bunch of songs I want to sing" trap, I made up a large master list of maybe 100 songs, and wrote a brief synopsis about each one — just a line or two about how they made me feel, and what place they might have in the narrative I'd be creating.
Finally, I started to write. Just ideas at first, stories I wanted to tell. One of the few things I'd already figured out was that I wanted it to be autobiographical, like my columns. Humorous stories about being an actor in New York. I'd already told a bunch of those in my columns, so what hadn't I already written about?
Struggling for a beginning, I decided to start with my background, and how I got into theatre. Then I'd segue into the "New York" section, and throw in a little about my personal life. Nothing too deep (I thought), but a few details that would better flesh out my "character" (i.e., me).
That seemed a pretty good framework. My life as an actor, in roughly an hour (the general running-time for cabaret), mostly concentrating on humor, but with some poignant scenes too.
Next I created an outline. I tried to arrange the story ideas I'd jotted down into a rough chronology, adding in more anecdotes as they occurred to me. Once I'd exhausted the immediately obvious stuff, I started looking through photo albums and old show programs, trying to recall what was going on in my life during those periods. The outline started getting long.
When I was done, I read over what I had so far, crossed out some repetitive stuff, and started pulling songs from my master list to better convey some of the stories. When a story I'd jotted down matched up to the lines I'd written about a song, I'd cut the 'script' and insert the song.
I found that sometimes I'd picked three songs that said basically the same thing, and had to choose which one fit most appropriately. I tended to gravitate towards songs written in the first-person. After all, if the columns were autobiographical, shouldn't the songs be in that format too? I also avoided "story songs" — in which you hear an entire narrative from start to finish. These would have no place in my show; each song had to be a piece of the larger puzzle.
Eventually, I narrowed it down to about 15 songs that seemed appropriate, with short place-holder paragraphs between each roughing out the stories I wanted to tell. After that, what remained was filling in the roughs — actually writing the script.
I wrote and wrote, changing stuff, moving things around, deleting, adding. Unfortunately, I learned that certain stories which seemed hilariously funny had no place in the story as it was shaping up. These bits would work really well, but in another show.
Along the way, I discovered that I needed a visual component to the show. I mean, I'm good-looking and all (and modest!) but I figured that audiences would tire of staring at just me for an hour. I decided to illustrate some of the stories visually — with a variety of photos, presentations, video clips, etc. I wrote in a series of slides, a device I really liked. After a while, I started to really gear the writing to them. They almost became another character in the show.
Finally, about five days before the reading, the script got to a place I thought would work. But I had to practice! I'd chosen the songs, but I wasn't anywhere near performance-level on any of them. So I started cramming, like for an algebra test, trying to get good enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself.
Meanwhile, I called a film/TV school at which I'd taken some classes to reserve a room with a piano for the reading. Luckily, the one room large enough to accommodate my guests was available, for only $15/hour. What a bargain!
I emailed my invitees, telling them what was expected of them. Yes, they had a job to do! This piece was far from finished. I knew it was rough and needed work. So this wasn't a performance where they'd go home and discuss among themselves what worked and didn't work — I needed to hear those discussions! So I asked them to email me with feedback.
The day before deadline, it was all looking good: The show was written, the music was (more or less) ready to be performed. I'd booked the space, and put together my slides. What more did I need?
Oh crap — tech stuff! The slides were all set, but who would run the laptop and projector? Who knew the show well enough? The executive decision was made... I would do it! I'd set up a table next to the piano with the laptop, projector, and speakers. Speakers? Remember the video clips? The video would be projected on the wall like a slide, but how would the audience hear the audio? Computer speakers! Attached to my laptop. Talk about high-tech!
Oh, and did I mention the props? Why just talk about stuff when you can show it to the audience? Songbooks, CDs, videotapes, my high-school literary magazine — all of these and more found their way to the table.
The day of the show, I arrived to set up, and went over my checklist. Ok... show practiced, tech handled, props set, lights adjusted, guests on their way, everything good. Right? Wrong. Turns out, the piano was completely out of tune! Argh! It sounded like a rickety old saloon piano. I'd requested in advance that it be in tune when I arrived, and well‌I suppose you could argue that it was in a tune of some sort — all the notes were the same three steps too low!
Oh well, too late now. It was time to welcome in the guests. I took a deep breath.
Suddenly the little LCD window on the projector displayed "Lamp failure."
Oy.
Look for part two of Scott's one-man show journey in a few weeks.