Where last we lay our scene, I was telling you about how I’m in the process of building my first full-length show. Still am. Slowly but surely.
It continues to be hard, beautiful, makes me question all my life’s choices, whether it might not be easier to just work at Trader Joe’s (my retirement plan). The thing about making a show about work, is it does lead you to think about where and how you make your money.
Last month, I had the opportunity to travel to Kentucky, where I taught at Berea College a few days and enjoyed an amazing retreat up in the mountains alongside other performers who are also building new work. Somewhere in there, I realized, not for the first time in the journey with the show, I was wrestling with myself, resisting the process.
Each morning, we got up (not too early thank goodness), had breakfast and then engaged in two hours of group training–physical, vocal, sometimes just flat-out playtime together. Then, in the afternoons, we were on our own time to work on our own projects. This was when the time would stretch out before me.
I. Was. Daunted.
Long ago, I identified four pillars of the Teapot project: Purpose, Power, Passion, and Possibility. In the background, though, I’ve held in tension the words “Play” and “Productivity,” almost as if they were on two ends of a spectrum in how they relate to our work selves or identities.
People always talk about work-life balance, as if our work is not our lives and our lives are not our real work.
But what happens if my job is only successful if I learn how to really F.A.A.F.O.? (See diagram.)
What I’m learning is…I don’t think I get any better at my storytelling, especially if I’m going to make a whole full-length show, if I can’t learn to play–really play, like I’m a little kid again–and let some things fail.
I remember, as a girl, recording Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” on a cassette tape on my boombox four times back-to-back so that I could work on a choreographed routine involving the mini workout trampoline we had at our house. I also remember spending hours beside and inside a pool one long afternoon with a friend (as we both got burned to a crisp), crafting an intricate synchronized swimming routine to “She’s Like the Wind.”
When does that dedication to play go away for us? And how do we bring it back?
By the end of the week in Kentucky, I let myself try some ideas I had for the show in this safe, lab environment. I set up my showing as if we were in a diner–because some of the stories relate to when I worked as a server at Shoney’s and in bars in Blacksburg in my early twenties. I greeted my fellow retreat members as if they were coming in to the diner, took their orders for coffee while also asking them if they’d like to have some “purpose, passion, power, or possibility?” And would they like to “have a side of harsh reality with that?”
It was such a fun idea! Didn’t work at all!
If I hadn’t tried it, though, I’d still be wondering about it. Noodling around on it in my head. Might have even tried it for the big version of the show, where it would have failed in a bigger environment.
I have mentioned here, and many places elsewhere that the journey with this show involves some deep, internal wrestling. And that is because I’ve said on more than one occasion, “I wonder if I might be a better story coach than I am a storyteller.” I’m not sure why I say it that I’m maybe hoping for some reassurance, that someone will jump to reassure me I’m equally good at both.
I worry sometimes, the power in the words I’m saying or thinking though, that I’m making it true just by saying it. What I do know is that, plodding along as I am, trying to build this show, is an attempt to build a new reality where I make my attempt to stand and deliver a good story.
The other thing that teaching myself how to play again (and making that a part of productivity) is learning how to ask for support in a whole new way, to invite others into the process. I’ve always been a great team player, generally a pretty good leader when it involves rallying people to a great cause I believe in. I love striking up the band for a great project.
When it comes to me and my thing? Harder to do.
I finally had to admit to myself I wasn’t going to get there, though, unless I asked for help for–pretty much–everything. Now I’ve got a director, a photographer, a marketing strategist, and lots of friends waiting at the ready whenever I need to practice a new section. I consider them my new play friends, just like we’re choreographing a water ballet.
While I go back and forth sometimes about what I’m making–whether it’s storytelling or theatre, some hybrid–it ultimately falls under some broad category of a play. And that means I just have to play. As Shakespeare says, “The play’s the thing!”
In this moment. This darkest timeline. This world feels so dangerously serious right now. With all the implications of everything that’s happening…how can I possibly investigate whimsy and play right now?
I suppose, at the end end of the day, alongside any other actions for change I might engage, this feels as profound, as important as anything else I could do. Because I think we might be in for the long haul.