Mind's A Blank?

Recently, I appeared in a play that was produced for the Brighton Fringe. It was an ensemble piece, but it would be accurate to say that I had a reasonable amount of the dialogue - probably about forty minutes worth or more in a sixty minute piece. And while there were several scenes in which I got to interact with a talented and supportive cast, there were quite a few moments when the next speech, the next scene, the next section of the play had to come from me - no prompts, no logical response to something somebody else had said, no cheats.

It had been the first bit of acting I’d done for a while - certainly where I would be up on stage for quite such a long time - and understandably I was feeling a little bit nervous. It’s a cliche, but: how did I expect to remember all those words? I did have a bit of an escape plan in that the play was delivered like a lecture, so theoretically I could have just read the entire thing from a lectern. I didn’t want to do that for a number of reasons: the moments where I was taking longer to learn the lines were, ironically, the bits where the character wasn’t actually delivering the lecture, I felt that referring to the notes might take away from any naturalism I was seeking to convey, and frankly, I had a bit of my own pride to consider. Learning lines is the basic minimum that an actor has to achieve, right? I wanted to prove to myself that I could still do it.

Putting aside for a moment (and possibly another blog entry) how simplistic it might be to say that learning lines is always an absolute necessity in playing a part, I did feel I needed to learn the lines for this role. Anything less would have been a tightrope act each night, not only for myself, but also for my fellow actors: they had to feel that they could trust me on each performance.

There are of course a lot of ways to remember what you’re going to say when presenting or performing to an audience. Some of those genuinely (and appropriately) involve referring to notes on a lectern. When working with clients preparing for a speech that they have to present to work colleagues, or indeed with actors who are learning a monologue for an audition, my advice will vary according to the job, to the space, and indeed the person delivering the words.

It took a moment or two, but eventually I remembered that I do give pretty good advice, and once I had that in mind, I was able to take that advice for myself: I wasn’t delivering a speech borne out of emotional mishap (mostly), I wasn’t saying things that the character didn’t know they were going to say (again, mostly). In this context, if I needed to refer to notes, I was absolutely allowed to - the nature of the play, a lecture, gave me space to do that. The audience would accept it.

So: cue cards. Again, we could probably digress for at least a few paragraphs and certainly a number of blog entries about the pros and cons of of cue cards, when they’re best used, when they might be too much of a distraction, and much more. Certainly they’re not always the thing to utilise. But in this instance I’d like to describe them as training wheels. They’re not the solution, they’re a gentle push in the right direction: if you’re rehearsing the lecture (or monologue, or one hour play) enough, you will in most instances be familiar enough with the ‘story’ of what you’re talking about (again, more on the story of what you’re saying in a future entry). So, in those instances when your mind goes absolutely blank - and those instances are certainly not going to be zero - a quick glance at the cue card, on which you’ve written a single word to denote each new subject, will be mostly all you need to get you back on track. I’d suggest cue cards no bigger than a credit card, with no more than five words on each (and if you’ve got ten minutes or less to deliver, I’d reduce that right down to just one word per card).

If you’ve ever been to a stand-up comedy night, you’ve almost certainly seen a version of this: the stand-up comic with a smattering of random words scrawled onto their hand. It doesn’t mean they’re going to forget what they wanted to say: the list is there Just In Case. If they (you) have done a few practice runs, those moments of blankness will generally keep occurring around the same place, and somewhat counterintuitively, you will begin to think ‘Oh, this is the bit about ducks that I always forget’. Once you are familiar with the shape of what you want to say, you’ll find that you refer to your cue cards less and less, and finally: not at all. Face it, even rock bands with forty years plus experience of gigging make sure they’ve got their set list taped to the front of the stage.

I think we have a couple of - not exactly duties, but let’s say expectations - when speaking in public. Giving our audience space to feel comfortable and safe is near the top of the list, but I want to suggest that perfection is near the bottom. Give yourself permission to use the training wheels. After a while, you’ll notice that you’re not even bothering to use the brakes.

On June 19th, I’ll be delivering free-to-attend webinar where I’ll be discussing 10 tips to avoid Forgetting What To Say, Knowing What To Say In The First Place, and Knowing How To Tell A Story. There’s a link in the comments below: let me know if you think you can attend, and throw me any questions you have, and I may have a chance to address them in the webinar!