Bombshells

I was in a play last night. That’s a photo of me in rehearsal, which is why there’s a massive telly. In real life we performed in the very beautiful Clandon Woods.

Bombshells, by Australian Joanna Murray-Smith is a set of six monologues about women at bombsell moments of their lives. I did two, my friend Jane did another two. Jane was brilliant. Don’t worry, I was too, this isn’t a misery post.

My first monologue was Tiggy, a middle aged woman nervously giving a speech to an audience about her beloved cacti, but getting somewhat derailed by her feelings about her estranged husband. I always cry at the end, it’s a lovely piece of writing.

The second, longer monologue is a mother of three small kids and one largely absent husband, struggling (amusingly for the most part) to get through her day. That one’s epic, it’s funny, fast paced. Our show involves me moving two chairs around the room as they become a bed, a shopping trolley, a bassinet, a car. My only other prop is a duvet cover which stars as itself and also as a baby.

Challenging, even if you only count it as a feat of memory, and at one point in rehearsal it felt as if that was all we could get: me showing how many words I could learn. But the show in front of an audience wasn’t that, and that’s what I want to talk about – how it transforms when you get on stage. How that applies to writing.

First show was last week to an audience of 11, which didn’t feel as ridiculous as it sounds because it’s a small venue and everyone had to space out. Last night was 34! A literal sellout (in COVID times at any rate).

First show competent. More than competent, very good. No major mishaps. In performance terms second show WAY better – worked with audience, could tell when to pause, when to speed up. Felt character grow. In terms of getting it ‘right’ as per rehearsals – not so much. Chair a trolley when it should be a car, not once but twice. Forgot words more, had to open mouth and hope what came out didn’t mean the whole show finished after 10 minutes. (It didn’t. Our subconscious is, broadly, on our side).

How does this relate to writing? Here’s what I think:

1. You (I) have to do the prep. You (I) have to put in the spadework. It doesn’t just happen.
2. But if you’ve done the spadework, it does just happen. It does! But you have to throw yourself into the void and trust it. And that’s super scary and super exhilarating and there’s a very real chance you’ll not be perfect.
3. But perfect isn’t everything. It really, really isn’t. I made people cry last night. I made people laugh. We connected, it wasn’t me giving them words and them taking it. They didn’t really care where the chairs were. They believed a sheet was a baby, for 30 minutes or so, and so did I.
4. I enjoy acting even without an audience, and luckily I enjoy writing without a massive readership too. But it is better if you think you might make that connection. If you write with that connection in mind.

There’s a zone. I expect professionals know how to get into it and stay there. I’m still learning. But man, whether it’s writing or acting, once you’re in it, it feels an awful lot like flying.