What I learned from a bad audition
And how that translates to writing
I became a writer of creative nonfiction in my forties, a pursuit that can feel highly revealing and dangerous, which is perhaps why I delayed it so long. These invitations to write kept falling into my lap, and though I had excuses, I really wanted to say yes to these opportunities, and slowly but surely I did. Now I’m known as a writer by trade.
People tell me all the time that they would like to write books too. Which makes sense; I’m a book writing mentor. I feel their energy and believe them when they say so, and half the time I’ve asked the question because that impulse fascinates me endlessly.
But I know there’s another desire that we share as well. We also want safety. Often when talk turns to them actually writing, their ardor can markedly cool. When that happens, I recognize their deflection as fears that I have known intimately.
This doesn’t mean they’ve written off writing. They may be preparing.
By the time I gave myself permission to perhaps write a book, I’d spent years actively facing similar fears of standing onstage, beginning with college. Frustratingly, that fear of creative risk-taking never completely goes away. But we can befriend it.
My experience trying to be an actor taught me what that can look like.
I’ve been thinking about an audition for a small, independent play my sophomore year of college. The student director was a junior whom I knew from two classes, one prior, one current. He was intimidatingly well versed and verbally agile. (He now heads the CNN international bureau in a major city, for the record.)
But that wasn’t the problem. For auditions, he’d reserved the small basement space of a dorm where you can’t come or go without being noticed, which is why I didn’t slip out surreptitiously when this guy announced that the audition would be purely improv. Theater games. There were no scripts to read. In high-stakes situations with no preparation, I really don’t know how to play. Rehearsal is a godsend to me.
That dark night thirty-five years ago, I stood there deadly serious and perfectionistic and frozen in plain sight. When the director nudged me to take a turn, I stepped into the center space and blurted out a mortifying core-wound belief (we all have ours):
“I have no friends.” It wasn’t and isn’t true, but the statement felt true in that moment. It also accomplished what I needed it to, protecting me from further attempts to rope me into that improv. It was that unsafe to me.
There was a moment of unwelcome silence before they continued without me in what seemed like mounting, universally giddy delight. Nobody ever acknowledged what I had said. I felt small, desperate to escape, deeply ashamed, and humiliated to have confessed my failings aloud to a group of people who were not my friends. Now there’s that energetic truth that I welcome as a writer of creative nonfiction, but at that moment my competitors’ jeering (to my mind) delight made my public failure and shame feel all that much worse.
My classmate didn’t cast me. Interestingly my older cousin, also a junior, was cast as the lead in that play. (We weren’t close at the time, both of us wanting to be our own person, so nobody knew we were related unless we told them.) She is a gifted actor, whereas I’m a memoir writer at heart. It fascinated me to watch my unwitting cousin perform, to study her closely without being creepy. Dressed as a nun, she reminded me of our grandma which surprised me since we’re not Catholic. I wouldn’t have missed seeing her in that performance. I’m not sure she knew I was there.
I made an impression on the student director after all, though. One day in our political science class he sat down next to me. I’m sure I bristled. But in an unguarded moment (mine) he grabbed my hand and wrote a smiley face on it in blue ink.
I stared at it a moment, then looked into his eyes. He smiled and class began.
And even though the smiley face moment felt awkward and caught me off guard—again, it also felt like reassurance. Like he had validated at least some residual audition shame. He acknowledged my icy fury and took a calculated risk.
I’m not sure we spoke again, and it doesn’t matter. Here’s why, in terms of the Hero’s Journey: You set out on a mission. That would be the audition. Something happens there that sets you apart. We already know what happened. Then you’re welcomed back home. This was that welcome to complete the cycle.
I do think he was onto something with his improv, some adjustments required.
Improv disrupts the thoughts you were previously thinking, it throws you off guard, and yes, it reveals things you might want to know if you hope to be a truth-teller. Which is what a storyteller is.
And furthermore, if you’re a writer, it helps to get used to discomfort.
My classmate demonstrated something that day. You can be quirky. You can take creative risks. And you can live to show your face another day. And even smile.
Over time, I’ve grown comfortable being seen in ways that I guarantee would have sent the younger me into full-blown panic. Hell, I write about my most mortifying experiences and publish them. Wittingly, once my nervous system processes them and I’ve had time to make meaning. I now understand that I’m a highly iterative writer who processes life by writing, then talking through my draft through with skilled readers that I trust, and then revising multiple times. I’ve also had ridiculously many opportunities to stand on proper stages and in the classroom for twenty years, which is its own all-day, everyday stage.
All that cumulative work means that I understand my parameters, and what I require for me to feel safe in creative spaces. And others as well. I fiercely cultivate these parameters for fellow writers.
As a book writing mentor building a writing community, I practice what you might call perpetual improv, but on safer terms for writers. Playing in my world is NOT a high stakes competition with performance expected. You can publish later if you like. But let that come later. First comes playful experimentation.
I can play freely, as long as you don’t rush me or try to fix me. And we all understand that my writing is mine and your writing is yours. We’ll share when we’re ready, if ever. It may be perfect or rough, but that has no bearing on whether we share. Everyone has their own process and timing. That’s why writers require space to explore their needs. The more you show up, the more you’ll get out of it. You are the key ingredient here, the authentic you that nobody else can be. What will you write? Why and how?
When I work with writers, I do my level best to not put them on the spot. I don’t guarantee comfort but I always seek consent and offer permission to opt out, no apologies needed. This work is inherently risky and I ask direct questions. It’s also what I’ve always wanted: to contemplate this creative process and understand what’s in it for me. If you’re in my world, I assume that you know at some level what’s in it for you, or you are willing to find out because you can feel that it matters profoundly for you, and that is why you’re here. For yourself. It might feel scarier and more intimidating because it matters so much.
And that’s why I will not push you but I will invite you. You’ll write your own script. There will be fear and absolutely discomfort. But also delight, sometimes giddy. And definitely there will be surprises.
I will offer you safe space to process. To take risks. To write truths that need saying, whether you publish or no.
And I will welcome you home to yourself.
That’s what we do in Courageous Wordsmith.
P.S. Next time I’ll tell you what I thought the writing process had to look like, and why I put all my hopes on acting in the first place. I bet that you can relate.
Maybe it affects you today. But it doesn't have to anymore.