7. At job interviews, they ask you a hard question. You stare at them for a second and then say, “Line?!”

6. You’re doing your laundry and one particularly stubborn stain refuses to go away, and you cry “Out, damn spot! Out!”

5. Your friends tell you they’ll be over in 10 minutes to pick you up for the movie. You say “Thank you, ten!”

4. At every costume party, you dress up as Shakespeare

3. You spell it “theatre.”

2. When speaking in public, you insist on having sixteen glaring, bright lights shining in your face.

1. You never go anywhere without your Shakespeare bobble-head.

Whenever I think about time, I look at my watch. It doesn’t matter whether I’m thinking of minutes, hours, days, months, years, or eons, I look at my watch when I think of time. An old student of mine used to laugh when she’d ask me what the date was and I looked at my watch. She thought I was crazy.

Maybe I am. I glanced at my watch.

“I’ve only had my scripts for a week, and we open in three weeks! This is crazy!” I exclaimed to Carl, the producer.

“That’s the way our summer shows usually are,” he replied with a shrug. This was only half-true, for several reasons.

“Yes,” I said, scowling. “But people only take one class at a time in the summer, and the directors also know which play they’re doing weeks and months in advance. Besides, this isn’t summer, this is almost winter, and I found out a week and a half ago!” He shrugged in a semi-apologetic manner.

“Just going to have to make it work. The show must…,” he trailed off as he turns around and went back to doing whatever it is that producers do when they’re not producing shows.

“The show must go on,” I finished. I sighed in frustration and left to track down James, Kimberly, and Adam.

One of the most difficult things a director does is maintain communications with his designers. This particular show, The Faculty Room, is no exception. For one thing, I had only four weeks to turn this script into a finished production. The biggest problem facing us was that the performance space was currently being used up by the other production opening this weekend, All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten. I needed to make sure my designs were ready, so we could implement them as soon as Kindergarten struck their set. We were temporarily rehearsing on the main stage.

I quickly tracked down James and Kimberly and received their design plots. We went over them. I made suggestions, they made suggestions, and we compromised. The set and costume designs were ready.

I was down to finding Adam for the sound designs. I walked down to the scene shop, but he wasn’t there and none of the other techies had seen him all day. I asked the secretary in the lobby. She hadn’t seen him either.

Disappointed and distressed, I stepped outside to talk to my cast about finding some extra time during the day to work on their scenes. As I wrapped up negotiations, Adam pulled up in the parking lot and began walking towards the theatre. I intercepted him.

“Hey Adam!” I called. “Did you get my script?”

I like Adam. He and I worked together for my directing debut of 1984. He is a brilliant sound designer, and since this show is sound-heavy, I immediately thought of him for the position of sound designer. I knew that if anyone could pull off the sound effects and recordings on such short notice, it would be Adam.

“No, man,” he replied. “I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Shit,” I said. “I gave it to the TD to give to you. He didn’t?” Adam shook his head. I spouted off some four-letter words regarding the female anatomy. He shrugged and grinned.

“What do you need?” he said. I explained all of the sound effects that I needed. He shook his head again.

“I can’t help you, man,” he explained. “I’m doing sound for two shows right now, and I just don’t have the time.”

“Shit,” I said again. He suggested that I track down one of the twins. The twins are some of the new kids on the block, both wanting to be techies. One of them does sound, the other lights. I can barely tell the two apart. I wavered, not entirely sure of the the twins’ abilities, but Adam assured me that he could assist if necessary–he just couldn’t do the entire design on his own.

I thanked Adam and headed down to the costume shop. One of the girls there should know where the twins were. As I headed down the steps, I practiced my 30-second pitch. I was gonna need to use all my persuasive ability to convince one of these twins to do the sound design. I decided that if both twins are together when I found them, I’d ask the other to do the lights, too.

I thought I’m getting a headache. I’d have killed for some Tylenol at that point.

This day was going to be a long, long day.

I step out of my car and stroll towards the theatre, hoping to find someone hungry enough to go grab a bite to eat with me. Sometimes there are people gathered around outside between classes, sometimes the sidewalk is empty. There’s a tree with four trunks that sprawl out where people gather to talk about their classes or their lives or their friends or their jobs or… well, anything else they want to talk about.

Today, the tree is empty, as is the sidewalk.

I open the doors and step inside. I shiver as the heat from inside rushes over me. It is freezing outside in late October. It’s just as cold as it should be, but since we’ve had some rather hot days recently, I find it hard to adjust to the new cold. No wonder nobody is outside.

I peek into the lobby and find Carl talking to the secretary. He sees me and yells out, “Your play has been approved!” I stop for a second, stunned. As I approach, he finishes his conversation and then turns to me.

“Your play has been approved,” he repeats. “Pending approval of rights, of course.”

“So I can do it if I can get the rights?”

“Right. Let me know what you find out. You need to find out how much royalties are, how much scripts are, and so on and so forth.” He waved his hand vaguely and rushed off to do whatever it is that department heads do in late October. A thought occurred to me as he was almost out the door.

“Hey Carl!” I cried. “What are the dates of the performances?”

“November 29 through December 1,” he calls back. The door closes behind him.

November 29. Today is October 28. That’s 32 days, minus weekends. I’ve got to get scripts and rights. There’s no way I can do this in this time frame. I have to find a cast, find a crew, and figure out a schedule. I haven’t even read the script in four months because Carl’s been ignoring my proposal.

I’m doomed.

But all hope is not lost. I scramble to track down my choices for crew: James for set, Kimberly for costumes, Adam for lights. James and Kimberly agree to do it, but Adam is nowhere to be found. I leave a message with the secretary.

I sprint to my car to rush home to email the publishing company. As I pass through the middle of town, my mind is racing. There is so much to do and so little time. I know this is going to be a stressful experience. But then I smile as the words of my cousin come back to me:

“If it ain’t theatre, it ain’t fun.”

I think about all that I have to do in the next 72 hour to get my show, The Faculty Room on the road to success.

Now this is fun.

As a relative newcomer to the directing profession, I pay a lot of attention to people auditioning these days. Too often, people think they deserve parts. They went to a small school where they got the lead roles every time, where they were always cast. They go to a bigger place, and they cry when they don’t get cast. They throw hissy fits and temper tantrums and they just want that part. They deserve that part. They deserve to be on Broadway.

What they don’t understand is that in the “real world”, there are hundreds of people who look, act, walk, talk, sing and dance just like them. Just like them. There is no difference.

Next time Hairspray holds auditions, go to NYC and you’ll see a line ten miles long of short, round girls with big 80’s style brunette hair. Each and every one of them always got the lead at their school or community theatres. Each and every one of them sings perfectly, some even have Perfect Pitch. Each one of them has had ten years of dance lessons and training. Ultimately, it comes down to which one of them makes the biggest impression on the casting directors.

So, how does one Tracy out of a million make that kind of impression? It’s simple.

Be different.
Be bold.
Be unique.

A friend of mine who has performed with me for years complained the other day that people don’t remember her on stage. The reason? She doesn’t take risks. She’s perfectly bland in every way. The only reason she gets the parts is because she looks the part of a beautiful female lead. There’s potential there, tons of it. She just needs to step outside of her comfort zone, take risks, be bold, be different and be unique. Then she’ll have dozens of fans who track her every performance.Here’s an example:

A couple of years ago, back when my hair was down to my shoulders, I took an auditioning class at school. The instructor had us all memorize one line:

“I hate you. I hate you, and I never want to see you again.”

That’s it. Memorize that line.

“Now, you have five minutes. Practice that line. In five minutes, you’re going to perform it for the rest of the class.” Each and every person threw temper tantrums, screaming those lines at the top of their lungs.

Finally, it was my turn. I sat on the table upstage, I pulled my hair down in front of my face, so you could see my eyes and mouth, but little else. I stared intently into the eyes of a girl in the class. I hated her guts, really, but that’s another story for another blog. I stared into her eyes, and I said in a deep, gravelly voice — perfectly calm — I said, “I hate you. I hate you. And I never want to see you again.”

The girl screamed, the professor’s jaw dropped, and the room was silent. He looks at me and says, “Holy shit.” He paused for a second and looked at the class. “He gets the part.”

You see, the reason I got the hypothetical part wasn’t because I was angry “correctly”, but because I delivered my lines in a way that was different from everyone else. I made a lasting impression on each and every person in that room. The rest of their performances? Very, very forgettable.

I ate lunch with my professor recently, and he brought that assignment up. It’s been four or five years since that class.

That’s what I’m talking about.

Be bold.
Be different.
Be unique.

And the part is yours.

“Hey, Mr. Director!”

“Hey, Mike,” I reply. It is Mike, a kid I know from the school where I taught last year. He’s a freshman at the college. We are both at auditions for the first upcoming play, And Then There Were None (or Ten Little Indians) by Agatha Christie.

Someone snickers. Actually, a few someones snicker. They’re laughing because Mike calls me Mr. Director, instead of my first name, like my friends do. I understand. It’s a hard habit to break, especially when you start seeing a figure of authority hanging out like one of your friends. It’s even weirder when that figure of authority actually becomes your friend.

Since he really doesn’t know anyone at auditions, he sits with me. I decide to help him out.

I don’t really expect to get a part. The first show of the season always has at least thirty people auditioning, and there are usually only ten to twelve parts. This audition is no exception. My true purpose tonight is to check out the new talent and refresh my memories on the old talent. After all, I am directing a play later in the semester. Best to start thinking ahead.

I’ve been in this department for a little over five years now. I know all of the veterans. The new people, not so great.

Doc calls the first group up. I give a running commentary to Mike throughout the auditions. I offer suggestions as to why this person is a better auditionee than that person.

“What do you think of him?” Mike whispers. I look at who he meant. The guy is tall, thin, dark-haired and well-dressed.

“He’s my competition,” I reply. I explain to Mike how — unfortunately — looks count a lot in any audition. Most directors have a preconceived notion as to how each character should look. In addition, you want different body types on stage so the audience can easily tell which character is which. If you have two characters who have extremely similar body types, they blur together and audiences have a hard time telling the difference. This particular man looks very similar to me, so I know he is one of my competitors. There’s another man at auditions with a similar build, too.

I point out the groups of people attending. “One of us is going to get cast,” I say, pointing at the two men who are similar to me in build. “Your competition are those two guys.”

Mike is short and scrawny. He has a messy mop of hair on his head, and he wears thick-rimmed black glasses. He always wears denim and he’s a nervous wreck sometimes. The other two guys were similar. One had crazy hair, the other wore glasses. Both were the same general build — short, thin, young. One of them was going to get the role of the Doctor, I thought. They had the mad scientist look going for them.

“Rob is going to get cast,” I say. There is no one else who fit his build, and Rob is a perfect character actor for one of the characters in the play. Then I point to two other girls, “Both of them will get cast. There are three female parts, and these two are different enough physically from the other girls that they’re definitely in. They’re solid actresses and Doc has seen them perform before. They’ll get cast.”

I look around at the other girls. I have no clue which is going to get cast in the third female role. Why am I so uncertain? It’s simple. They all look the same. They’re all about 5′6″, long blonde hair, thin, athletic bodies, and nice chests. They’re all beautiful. Doc was probably going to eeny-meeny-miney-mo to pick. In fact, he probably did.

“And those two guys are competitors,” I whisper to Mike while pointing at two black guys who showed up. “Alex will probably get the part, because Demetrius isn’t such a great actor. He’s not trying at all to break out of the ‘hood’ mentality.” Demetrius still walks and talks like your stereotypical black guy. Alex, on the other hand, had altered his behavior to fit the role.

There are a few other groups of people, and I point them out to Mike. This whole whispered conversation occurrs while the first group went up to audition.

As auditions progress, I point out other things I notice about the auditionees.

“See how he keeps shifting his weight? That’s annoying. See how that other guy keeps walking around? It’s unnecessary. Just plant your feet and don’t move unless you have a good reason to move.”

Mike nods. He understands. He makes some excuses about his own nervousness. That’s perfectly normal, I assure him. Part of learning to be an actor is to control those nervous behaviors. It’s normal to be nervous — it’s better to be nervous but not show it.

“See that girl?” I ask. “She’s too hyper. This character is supposed to be an old woman, and this girl is pretty much bouncing around like a bouncy-ball. She’d be a perfect Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Mike chuckles. I do, too.

In the end, I am spot on about who was going to get cast. The only category in which I am wrong is the one with all the blonde petite girls. I’m positive Doc flipped a coin on that one.

Mike is impressed. I shrug.

“Like I said, man,” I explain. “Looks matter in this business. Acting talent is what sets you apart from everyone else who looks just like you. Whenever those other guys who look like you go up there, watch what they do and do something different. Set yourself apart from them. You aren’t competing against me. You’re competing against them. Do something different from them.”

Mike nods again. We chat for a few more minutes and then I leave.

As I drive home, I ponder what I had told Mike. I don’t really think it’s fair that looks matter. After all, you can’t control some things about your looks. But I decide I was right. In theatre, the beauty myth is true, to an extent.

Looks matter — talent matters more.

“I need to speak with you.” Carl motions for me to follow him to his office. I look at my friends, fear in my eyes. They look back at me with pity. I shrug and follow Carl.

Carl can be a very intimidating man. He’s not a big guy, nor is he particularly physically threatening. He is, however, moody. He’s unpredictable. He’s also in charge.

“Have a seat,” he says. I sit. I’m afraid he’s going to chew me out for something. I never quite know what to expect from him. One minute Carl will be nice and helpful, the next he’s a raging monster. He’s never truly mean — just short and to the point, blunt. I wait patiently (anxiously?) for him to tell me what this is all about.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Your play. It’s terrible.” I sigh. He ignores it. “It’s lazy writing.”

“Lazy writing?” I ask. I spent over a year writing that play. I wrote it and rewrote it and edited it and rewrote it again. “What do you mean, lazy writing?”

“The character of Rick. He cusses all the time,” he replies. “It’s like every other word was a curse from him.” I nod. This is true. He goes on, “I gave it to my wife to read, and she hated it. She said it was too vulgar, too dirty.”

I respectfully disagree, but I don’t say anything. I can’t very well tell him that the character of Rick is heavily based on one of his faculty members. You see, in my play, Rick is perpetually drunk. He’s not the raging, stereotypical drunk that says stupid things and stumbles around and sloppily tries to pick up chicks. No, Rick is quite the opposite. He’s somber and serious. His only real desires are to help his friends (which never happen because he’s too drunk to think straight) and to keep his feet on the ground.

His speech patterns slow down. If you look into Rick’s eyes, you can see straight into his mind. As far as Rick’s concerned, he’s already said what he needs to say. His mouth just needs to catch up.

“You need… … … …to get… … … …the fuck out of here… … … …man.” This is a rather common phrase leaving Rick’s mouth when he’s drunk. Another facet of Rick’s drunkeness is that his vocabulary shrinks to the point where when he can’t think of a word, he’ll throw in a curse.

“Lazy writing,” Carl says again. I nod and he keeps rambling on about how it was lazy writing. My mind is still churning from his comments.

Lazy writing, to me, is when the author doesn’t try and establish characters. Rick is true to life to my friend and faculty advisor. If it was truly lazy writing, then the other characters, Jake and Katie, would have been cursing all the time, too. But they aren’t. The only person who even says a curse word is Rick. Because that’s his nature.

Finally, Carl’s rant ends.

“Carl,” I say politely. “I really need to direct another show. I’m trying to get into graduate school, you see, and they’re going to want to know that I have some experience.”

He stares at me. I continue, “You’ve been rejecting every proposal I’ve made in the past year and a half. So I’m asking one final time — let me direct something.”

“But you’ve already directed 1984,” he protests. “We’ve got to give other people a chance to direct.”

“But, sir, nobody else WANTS to direct. I’m the only one.” He stares at me silently for a moment, his eyes searching. He’s trying to think of someone else. In the end, he nods. I am right.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you can’t direct this play. I suggest picking one from The Humana Festival.” He wrote down the name on a piece of a paper and sent me to the library.

I sigh. I can produce my play somewhere else, I suppose. But for now, hope has sprung up again.

I am going to be a director.