A Call to Arms
Dear Stuart,
I saw your show this weekend – the Decide Show, so you call it. And? Not so good. Let’s leave aside the technical difficulties you experienced that left the audience in silence for the better part of one segment. Let’s leave aside the non-catchy ditties interspersed throughout the night. Or the hokey “give yourselves a standing ovation” trick at the beginning. Let’s even leave out the fact that you seem to repeatedly rhyme the words “love” and “glove” as if that were novel.
What the hell is the show about? It’s called “Decide” and yet that’s the one thing you seem to have been incapable of doing.
Is the mixed-media an attempt to enlighten? Or is it misdirection?
Are the other characters up on stage meant to go through development? Or just support your journey?
Is it a personal experience? An invitation into the world inside your head?
Or is it merely an extension of your day job as a motivational speaker? An opportunity for you to let everyone know exactly how you think they can make your world a better place?
Because the show never makes up its mind, it fails on all accounts.
Musical sequences, prose, poetry, free-verse, beat-boxing, interspersed video content and interpretive dance! One word: overkill. Pick one medium, or two – preferably the ones you are best at, and run with them. Attach the medium to a story that is worth telling – not the other way around. Stop manipulating your audience. Every time you touch on a subject matter that will tug on the heartstrings of those in their seats, you switch gears on us so quickly as to give us whiplash of the consciousness. Every time you hook into something that feels real, the chorus is quickly trotted out on stage to muddy up the point entirely. It’s not cool. Don’t assume that your audience has the attention span of a gnat. Don’t assume that we aren’t willing to simply listen to what you have to say. If what you have to say is worth listening to, then you will not have to force the point with us, or misguide us, or make loud noises to keep us off balance. Commit to what you are doing, already.
And those other people up on stage? Those aren’t puppets. Those are actors. They’d like some sort of purpose instead of just ambling around, supporting your self-assumed grandeur. Most of their names are only mentioned in passing. None of them have a story-line of their own. None of them have any story arcs, or character development, or resolution. That cute scene where you break through the fourth wall and have the discussion about how each of those actors made the decision to recite your predetermined lines? As cute as it is – and we all have a chuckle at it because the audience loves to be in on the joke – it really only serves to reinforce the point that the chorus is just full of minion-bees, serving up honey to the writer-producer-and-the-only-bona fide star-QUEEN BEE of the show: YOU. As the writer it is your responsibility to do justice to every single thing you put up on stage, not just to yourself. Writers make choices. Good writers make generous choices. Great writers make necessary choices. All you did was choose to hog the spotlight. Are you still in your twenties? Perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to make the necessary decisions that will make it yours a great show yet. But, maybe, just maybe, it’s time to grow up.
And here’s the crux of the problem: are you confiding or preaching? I can’t tell. You haven’t let me in far enough. At the outset, I can almost peer into the seed of the idea for the show. I can envision you, sitting at home in front of your computer, beginning the journey of moving words from inside your head to the keyboard of your computer, and onto the stage in front of your audience. It feels as though you want to tell me something personal. It feels as though you want to confess something to me. As you move through how tough it was for you to tell your parents that you could not be a nine-to-fiver, I feel for you. I’m almost right there with you. You’re so close to moving me. And then? And then it’s gone. And then the seed of the idea becomes vague and unclean. You don’t back up the idea with any personal experiences. You don’t back it up with similar experiences from the rest of the characters. There is just some talk about how everyone up on stage totally agrees with you as they nod their heads up and down, a blank stare across their face. Why do they agree with you? Why don’t they want the nine to five? WHY DON’T YOU WANT THE NINE TO FIVE? Tell me. Let go of what’s holding you back and trust that the audience will not judge. It all repeats itself again with the sequence about love. We’ve all been burnt before, you tell me. And then you open the door to your experience just a crack with a monologue about loss in love. But? Why? What did you lose? Who? And why? And how? And what about the others? What did they lose? Did they watch their parents fall apart? Did they watch a lover self-destruct in loathing? Was there infidelity? How badly were they let down? Don’t just ask me to fill in the blanks for myself. Make the decision to take me to that vulnerable place inside of you. The possibilities then are endless.
Instead, you do what feels safe and, perhaps, more natural for you. You sit back into the groove that got you started in the first place. You pull up to your pulpit and you begin to preach your version of the gospel. You tell the audience of their own power to decide. You let them know that they have nothing to fear but fear itself. You turn them around and congratulate them for being so possessed as to attend your gracious enlightenment. It’s all in our hands! Go forth and spread the word! I have heard that you are a motivational speaker by day. I read it in your too-wordy-for-the-pre-show-dim-lights program. [I’ll be sending you the bill from the eye doctor, incidentally.] Here’s what I think: you choked. You set out to perform something intensely personal, but in the end something is preventing you from doing just that. Because once you get up on that stage, an archetype takes over and you are not showing the audience anything real about yourself. You are telling the audience what they need to do to be like you. Well, you haven’t given me any reason to want to be like you. So I’m not listening. You have mastered the art of oratory. Now it’s time to learn the difference between “performance” and “acting”. You are not an actor. No matter how badly you want to be considered one.
Your ideas may be fundamentally good. You may be headed in the right direction in the wrong vehicle. But none of that matters. I think you have surrounded yourself with an entourage of people who tell you that you’re already great, and so you’ve stopped somewhere halfway to your intended destination. ‘Right here is good enough,’ you tell yourself. ‘Right here, people like me and I am safe.’ I’m here to tell you that it’s not good enough. Make up your mind already.
What you’re striving for is universality. What you’ve stopped at is generic.
Sincerely,
Jennifer
I saw your show this weekend – the Decide Show, so you call it. And? Not so good. Let’s leave aside the technical difficulties you experienced that left the audience in silence for the better part of one segment. Let’s leave aside the non-catchy ditties interspersed throughout the night. Or the hokey “give yourselves a standing ovation” trick at the beginning. Let’s even leave out the fact that you seem to repeatedly rhyme the words “love” and “glove” as if that were novel.
What the hell is the show about? It’s called “Decide” and yet that’s the one thing you seem to have been incapable of doing.
Is the mixed-media an attempt to enlighten? Or is it misdirection?
Are the other characters up on stage meant to go through development? Or just support your journey?
Is it a personal experience? An invitation into the world inside your head?
Or is it merely an extension of your day job as a motivational speaker? An opportunity for you to let everyone know exactly how you think they can make your world a better place?
Because the show never makes up its mind, it fails on all accounts.
Musical sequences, prose, poetry, free-verse, beat-boxing, interspersed video content and interpretive dance! One word: overkill. Pick one medium, or two – preferably the ones you are best at, and run with them. Attach the medium to a story that is worth telling – not the other way around. Stop manipulating your audience. Every time you touch on a subject matter that will tug on the heartstrings of those in their seats, you switch gears on us so quickly as to give us whiplash of the consciousness. Every time you hook into something that feels real, the chorus is quickly trotted out on stage to muddy up the point entirely. It’s not cool. Don’t assume that your audience has the attention span of a gnat. Don’t assume that we aren’t willing to simply listen to what you have to say. If what you have to say is worth listening to, then you will not have to force the point with us, or misguide us, or make loud noises to keep us off balance. Commit to what you are doing, already.
And those other people up on stage? Those aren’t puppets. Those are actors. They’d like some sort of purpose instead of just ambling around, supporting your self-assumed grandeur. Most of their names are only mentioned in passing. None of them have a story-line of their own. None of them have any story arcs, or character development, or resolution. That cute scene where you break through the fourth wall and have the discussion about how each of those actors made the decision to recite your predetermined lines? As cute as it is – and we all have a chuckle at it because the audience loves to be in on the joke – it really only serves to reinforce the point that the chorus is just full of minion-bees, serving up honey to the writer-producer-and-the-only-bona fide star-QUEEN BEE of the show: YOU. As the writer it is your responsibility to do justice to every single thing you put up on stage, not just to yourself. Writers make choices. Good writers make generous choices. Great writers make necessary choices. All you did was choose to hog the spotlight. Are you still in your twenties? Perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to make the necessary decisions that will make it yours a great show yet. But, maybe, just maybe, it’s time to grow up.
And here’s the crux of the problem: are you confiding or preaching? I can’t tell. You haven’t let me in far enough. At the outset, I can almost peer into the seed of the idea for the show. I can envision you, sitting at home in front of your computer, beginning the journey of moving words from inside your head to the keyboard of your computer, and onto the stage in front of your audience. It feels as though you want to tell me something personal. It feels as though you want to confess something to me. As you move through how tough it was for you to tell your parents that you could not be a nine-to-fiver, I feel for you. I’m almost right there with you. You’re so close to moving me. And then? And then it’s gone. And then the seed of the idea becomes vague and unclean. You don’t back up the idea with any personal experiences. You don’t back it up with similar experiences from the rest of the characters. There is just some talk about how everyone up on stage totally agrees with you as they nod their heads up and down, a blank stare across their face. Why do they agree with you? Why don’t they want the nine to five? WHY DON’T YOU WANT THE NINE TO FIVE? Tell me. Let go of what’s holding you back and trust that the audience will not judge. It all repeats itself again with the sequence about love. We’ve all been burnt before, you tell me. And then you open the door to your experience just a crack with a monologue about loss in love. But? Why? What did you lose? Who? And why? And how? And what about the others? What did they lose? Did they watch their parents fall apart? Did they watch a lover self-destruct in loathing? Was there infidelity? How badly were they let down? Don’t just ask me to fill in the blanks for myself. Make the decision to take me to that vulnerable place inside of you. The possibilities then are endless.
Instead, you do what feels safe and, perhaps, more natural for you. You sit back into the groove that got you started in the first place. You pull up to your pulpit and you begin to preach your version of the gospel. You tell the audience of their own power to decide. You let them know that they have nothing to fear but fear itself. You turn them around and congratulate them for being so possessed as to attend your gracious enlightenment. It’s all in our hands! Go forth and spread the word! I have heard that you are a motivational speaker by day. I read it in your too-wordy-for-the-pre-show-dim-lights program. [I’ll be sending you the bill from the eye doctor, incidentally.] Here’s what I think: you choked. You set out to perform something intensely personal, but in the end something is preventing you from doing just that. Because once you get up on that stage, an archetype takes over and you are not showing the audience anything real about yourself. You are telling the audience what they need to do to be like you. Well, you haven’t given me any reason to want to be like you. So I’m not listening. You have mastered the art of oratory. Now it’s time to learn the difference between “performance” and “acting”. You are not an actor. No matter how badly you want to be considered one.
Your ideas may be fundamentally good. You may be headed in the right direction in the wrong vehicle. But none of that matters. I think you have surrounded yourself with an entourage of people who tell you that you’re already great, and so you’ve stopped somewhere halfway to your intended destination. ‘Right here is good enough,’ you tell yourself. ‘Right here, people like me and I am safe.’ I’m here to tell you that it’s not good enough. Make up your mind already.
What you’re striving for is universality. What you’ve stopped at is generic.
Sincerely,
Jennifer
posted by nerdifer at 12:30 p.m.
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