by Tim Federle
I should note that I did not think up this “hero game” myself. When Tommy Tune danced in My One and Only on Broadway, he is said to have imagined the famed “water dancer” Esther Williams out in the audience, particularly during the number when he had to splash around in puddles while sporting tap shoes. (Ah, showbiz.)
When you’re running low on motivation, imagine the person you most admire, out there in the “audience”—or over your shoulder, watching you navigate through tricky or just plain grueling work. By choosing a hero—and it doesn’t have to be a celebrity; choose the college professor you most admired, if you’d like—you’re getting at the core of why so many of us do what we do: because we desire to be seen. How many jobs (or marriages) end because one of you begins to feel invisible?
Figure out who your Esther Williams, Taylor Swift, or Mikhail Baryshnikov is, and the next time an important task feels like a slog, put that person in the room with you. Impress them. Delight them. Surprise them, even if they are your only witness. Muses work in mysterious ways. Just make them work for you.
34 REHEARSE UNDER EMERGENCY CONDITIONS
Too many of us go through life getting easily thrown off course by unexpected changes in our environment. Racing to work, you hit a wall of traffic and your mood is a solid zero for the whole day. Or, in the middle of a high-stakes presentation, the microphone goes out and it flusters you. You never recover. Truly elite performers learn to rehearse for mistakes, because something goes wonky in nearly every live performance. It’s what you do when the skit hits the fan that defines your professionalism.
Midway through my stint as one of the kids’ tap-dance coaches on Billy Elliot, I’d grown frustrated with a recurring phenomenon. Our otherwise brilliant child actors, whom we’d trained for months on end in a rehearsal studio, would finally have their chance to practice onstage before making their big debuts—and one by one they each fell apart. “The stage is too slippery,” they’d say, or the lights were too blinding, or the music was way faster than the CD we’d been rehearsing with. It drove me batty, though I couldn’t blame them. Billy Elliot is such a wildly demanding show—requiring a British accent, crazy ballet turns, the ability to sing in a clarion soprano and do a time step and cry on cue, all at age twelve—that it would take a huge team of people the better part of half a year to prep each kid to make his debut. But time and again, no matter how talented the boys were, when we’d bring each of them from the rehearsal studio to the stage, they had a mini freak-out. It slowed us down and eroded the boys’ confidence.
On one of my days off from the show, I was flipping through channels when I came upon an interview with the swimmer Michael Phelps. (I don’t typically watch sports, but, ya know, his abs.) Phelps was being grilled about one particular swim meet, where he’d set a world record and won a gold medal—even though one of the lenses of his goggles had accidentally filled with water after he dove into the pool. That is, he’d swum half-blind and still won. So how did he do it? Without missing a beat, Phelps said, “Because my coach made me practice it that way.”
Aha! Phelps regularly swam under emergency conditions—with the lights off under the pool, with rock music blaring at times, and with one goggle full of water. Only one day or so per week was spent rehearsing (whoops, practicing) as if everything was going to go right once he got underwater. On game day, I learned, you’ve gotta prep your athlete for anything—and this was a revelation to me as a coach.
I started rehearsing with the Billys differently, following that rare stop at ESPN. Now our artistic staff would leave the rehearsal floor slippery sometimes; or we’d instruct the boys to face away from the mirrors while dancing to “throw them off”; or we’d have them try pirouetting with their eyes closed… with the lights flashing… with the piano player going wayyyy toooo slowwwwly or wy too fst! And it worked. The boys started adapting to the reality that, in a live performance, they wouldn’t feel the comfortable safety net of an artificial rehearsal environment. It would be faster, slipperier, scarier, slower, louder, and different. And ultimately, more exciting, and “live.”
Build a backup plan into any critical element of your day that could go wrong. The genius of GPS is that it can automatically recalculate the fastest route to your destination. Get in the habit of bulking up your internal map so you don’t flinch so hard when your deck crashes on the day of the big pitch. Wing it, using a well-devised Plan B.
Too many of us only go through the paces under perfection conditions—we “can’t” take the big test unless we have utter silence, and the room is seventy degrees, and our pencil is sharpened just the way we like it. Whenever possible, throw that stuff out. The ability to make do with what you’ve got means you’re as nimble as a stage performer, able to push through even when the sound goes out, the lights go off, and the audience holds its breath to see how you’ll pull through.
35 WRITE FAN LETTERS
For a lot of folks, expressing all the colorful ways in which you think something sucked is shorthand for I have distinctive and excellent taste. But calling out misfires, artistic and otherwise, is for amateurs. The real pros grow more sensitive over time to just how difficult brilliant work is to achieve. Once you’ve attempted to make your own thing—and frankly, after you’ve missed the mark once or twice—your respect for the true masters deepens. You stop noticing what sucks and start seeing what succeeds.
When I was interviewing script assistants for Tuck Everlasting, I’d always break the ice by asking people what their favorite recent musical was. Easy enough, right? But I was struck by how many applicants led off by naming five shows they’d hated, productions they thought had fallen flat on Broadway—which they’d name and then punctuate with an eye roll, like we were in on a big joke. Except we weren’t. In fact, that’s the moment they lost the job.
This is something a lot of younger folks, especially, do: expressing distaste for something as a way of showing they’ve got critical chops. And yet the types of people who create and foster the most ambitious work—not to mention healthy relationships, in general—are the ones who never quite lose the attitude of being fans themselves.
So write a fan letter. Today. No, really—like, not metaphorically. Maybe once a week, or even just once a month, set aside a scheduled five minutes to jot a note to someone, letting her know how great you think she is. Make it specific.
Write an email to your old guidance counselor, to let her know how much it meant to you that she had your back when you were a flailing teen. (Not enough educators get the shout-outs they deserve.) Pull your partner aside or even just send him a text in the middle of the day, mentioning one thing about him that inspires you, or gets you revved up. Try to populate your life with the types of costars who feed on positive reinforcement, and not snark. Snark is fun for, like, ten minutes, in the corner of a holiday party that you’d rather not be at. But over the long haul it grows stale. Snark has an expiration date, and once you open that can it goes bad, fast. Fandom is forever.
These letters don’t have to be a huge commitment. They don’t even have to be letters. It could be a one-line email dashed off to a long-ago classmate, taking special note of an accomplishment he’s posted on Facebook, a message that goes beyond a Like. The point is to get into the habit of noticing when people do something you admire—and then telling them.
Think of somebody whose efforts make your life better or function more easily. It could be your dog walker or a babysitter or that neighbor who waters your plants when you’re out of town. Next time she helps you out, text her: Appreciate you, mean it. Which is what it all boils down to anyway: Because you’re around, my existence is better. That’s it. Send.
Never get so big that you stop admiring the efforts of others. Sometimes the people who make it look the easiest are the ones working the most doggedly, and not with a whole lot of recognition from the types of people they might consider heroes. One of them might be you.
36 BE NICE OUTSIDE THE AUDITION ROOM, TOO
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br /> What would happen if you began treating every moment of your life as if it were an audition? Okay, maybe not every moment—laundry day is allowed to just be laundry day. But there’s wisdom to remembering that we’re all being evaluated constantly. Sure, most of us, when we walk into a first date or a job interview or, hell, a Halloween party, have been thoughtful enough to wear a clean shirt, spritz a little cologne, and generally put our friendliest foot forward. That’s not telling a lie or being fake—it’s taking an internal tally of your strengths and choosing those particularly shiny qualities to showcase to the public, that is, the world. This is natural. When we’re under a spotlight, we behave a certain way—but it’s what happens afterward, when you think nobody’s watching, that defines your true character. You’ve gotta be nice outside the audition room, too, even when it doesn’t go the way you wish it had.
Being gossipy with anyone other than your closest buds is kind of dumb from a pragmatic perspective. Word travels fast, especially in the arts, about the types of folks who are unkind and ungracious on a karmic level. Anyone can be cool in the audition room, when all eyes are clearly on them. It’s how you act directly after a high-stakes situation—like, when you step into the hallway after receiving a clench-smiled “That’s all we need to see today, thanks”—that speaks real volumes. Don’t punch the wall. Take a deep breath and duck out onto the street instead.
I’m not talking about not confiding in your bestie when the going gets really rough. We’ve all called our friends and shouted into the phone about somebody else getting a gig (or boyfriend) we thought we were perfect for. (There’s a time and place for that kind of unfiltered downloading—usually 11 p.m. on a Friday with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey open on your lap.) I’m talking about the day-to-day persona you’re putting out into the world—especially when you’re broadcasting your hot takes online. Think about what kind of person you’d want to hire if you were in charge.
The bosses of today are, I guarantee you, googling everyone in their orbit—from former employees to potential applicants. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sat behind a big table, at the end of a long day of casting, with a group of ten to twenty “final” actors’ headshots spread out in front of the bleary-eyed creative team. Frequently, you’re only looking for, say, five or six people to cast, so you have to start making difficult decisions. Difficult because, generally speaking, every person whose photo is on the table is talented enough to have made it to “the end.” They’ve all got Broadway credits, really good teeth, and top agents. So how do you choose? How do you cut the group down by half, or more, when top-level talent becomes relatively interchangeable? Invariably, someone on the creative team will pipe up to say that so-and-so was trouble on another show—lazy, or uncooperative, or not great about taking notes—and just like that, he’s off the table. Literally. You move on to somebody else. A better team player. Maybe candidate B won’t be quite as vivid as candidate A, but vivid wears off quickly when you’re stuck with a jerk in a dressing room for eight shows a week. You hire the nice guy. Nice doesn’t go out of style. Nice goes with everything. Nice is the little black dress of adulthood.
Always remember that the world is a small place with a huge number of gifted people. If it comes down to you and one other person, don’t lose out on an opportunity that you’d otherwise be ideally suited for, just because you weren’t thoughtful when you left the room after a disappointing audition, interview, or even date. (Basically, if it’s a high-pressure situation, in which you’re trying to impress somebody else, it counts here.)
No matter what happens, walk to the elevator, count backwards from ten, and wait till you hit the street before you call your therapist to complain about how crazy the world is for not recognizing your outstanding skill set. Even if you’re right, the casting director’s assistant may be riding the elevator down with you. Save any and all outbursts for the street, lest she run back upstairs to tell the team that they dodged a bullet in letting you go. Life is short, but people’s memories are long.
37 KEEP A PHOTO OF THE WORST GIG YOU EVER HAD
Try to maintain the perspective that no matter what your situation, it could probably be worse. Barring actual tragedy (like being thrown on for an understudy role you barely know), your list of problems would probably look mighty attractive to a whole lot of people out there. But they’re still your problems—and if you’re able to remind yourself that you’ve gotten through tough times before, your view of them might shift a bit. In fact, you might even have a laugh over them.
When I made my Broadway debut at the Shubert Theater in Gypsy, I kept a strange photograph on my dressing room table of a grown adult man wearing what appeared to be some kind of Halloween costume: big yellow feet with a beak to match, framed by black felt wings. Folks, that man was me—and I’m all dressed up like a bird for a three-week production of The Wizard of Oz that I performed in at the age of twenty-one in North Carolina. (A production that truly taught me there’s no place like home.)
Why the photo? Because anytime I’d feel frustrated with current work politics, or on-the-job jealousies, or the day-to-day exhaustions of doing eight shows a week, all I had to do was flick my eyes over to that slightly surreal photo of a grown man shouting “Caw!” And then I’d instantly think: Well, I’ve had it worse.
It wasn’t so much a miserable gig as an emasculating one; I was literally playing a crow. I got neck cramps, because I had to keep my face ducked down throughout the show, so that my black crow’s-head baseball hat costume would be visible to the audience. And, listen, there are even worse gigs than that—at least it paid, and got me health insurance! Nonetheless, that little photo offered me a bird’s-eye view of my own life every time I looked at it.
I’m on Broadway, I’d think. I’m not playing an animal. I’m not working away from home. I was appearing nightly as a human being in New York City and sleeping in my own bed. Things were okay.
What is that thing in your own life—the cringe-inducing moment you look back on and think, I can’t believe I was once so young or dumb or desperate to do that? Incredibly ambitious people have an almost constantly moving target: the next bull’s-eye they want to hit. But the smart ones also remember how, once upon a lifetime, they didn’t have the connections or just plain wisdom that they’ve earned now.
Try to look back at a situation from your past that they couldn’t pay you enough to repeat. And then laugh it off and get back to work.
38 DON’T REVIEW A SHOW ON-SITE
Let’s play Choose Your Own Adventure. But, like, Broadway-style.
You have just sat through the worst performance in memory. A ballad that was written to make you weep instead made you scream-laugh. In a bad way. And not just you—entire rows of people found themselves howling at what transpired before them, their shoulders bobbing with church laughter despite everyone’s efforts to remain respectful. It was glorious. It was awful. It was gloriously awful. Perhaps the leading actor was suffering through a cold, and couldn’t hit the high note, and thus you suffered through his cold, too. And yet, you didn’t leave at intermission! You stayed. For whatever reason, you stuck it out and sat through it and got to the end, even though the show never got better. And now, the house lights come up, and you look at your date—and whaddya say?
If you’re like a lot of people, you get really honest (and noisy), and begin vocally reviewing the performance, probably with a bunch of theatrical arm movements thrown in to punctuate the takedown. “That. Was. Terrible.”
I witness this all the time when I’m out and about at shows. It’s human nature. And now I’m going to beg you not to. Not just at the theater, but anywhere that somebody has put himself out there: Resist the urge to give an immediate “review.”
My friend Eric and I have a “three-block” rule. The rule is: Once you get approximately three blocks away from the theater, there ought to be enough tourists and sidewalk vendors milling around—not to mention taxi drivers l
eaning on their horns—for you to safely and genuinely exhale, and giggle, and express your unbridled thoughts about the performance. Especially a rough performance. But, please, only when you’re three blocks away. It’s too risky otherwise.
Besides being kind of cruel, when you debrief on-site, you do yourself a disservice, because people remember faces and they remember being poorly evaluated. (That leading guy with the sinus infection? His wife is sitting in front of you. She already had a tough night. Don’t make it worse.) This extends to movies as well. How many times did you love an indie film only to have the lights come back up at the end, and the people behind you say, “Well, that was boring.” Moment ruined.
In life, think about your surroundings, both off the Internet and on, before dogging something. Also, ask yourself: Why am I dogging something at all? Is it because I’m genuinely interested in how this seemingly promising project went so wrong? Or is to elevate my own sense of self by pointing out someone else’s shortcomings?
Maybe you’ve seen this kind of circumstance illustrated in other ways. For instance, a colleague gives a presentation at work that goes hilariously off the rails. He opens his laptop, knocks a cup of coffee all over the keyboard, and doesn’t have a backup plan. Or something worse. Jokes don’t land, new ideas feel creaky, the pitch sucks. Whatever happens, I encourage you to keep your thoughts both off-line and off-site. The break room pairs well with mild gossip, but not authentically critical hit jobs.