I took 30 credit hours in my final college semester. There was no way I was going to come back in the fall to finish off my degree.

“Just show me where to sign!” I remember telling my stunned college advisor. She watched in shock as I signed the forms to allow me to take a giant course load, just so I could finish my degree in the planned four years.

I would have finished in four years, mind you, if it weren’t for having to transfer schools. Changing degrees - BA in Theatre to BFA in Music and Theatre - added a different set of requirements. I took 18 credits for five semesters straight but it still wasn’t enough. So I took the plunge and signed my free time away for a full five months.

It was rough.

Honestly, I spread myself too thin. (Read: Mark Toland’s tragic flaw.) I bit off more than I could chew and paid the price. I didn’t have the time to dedicate myself fully to each course and it took a lot of late nights playing catch-up to stay on track.

I had a class called “Auditioning” where we would prepare a monologue or song and present it to the class. Our professor would critique our performance as if we were at an actual audition to prepare us for the real world. It was an incredibly useful class.

One day, halfway through the semester, I trudged into “Auditioning” and collapsed into a chair. I was exhausted from my night class the evening before and a late night of reading and studying. Then I realized something.

I’m supposed to perform today AND I haven’t rehearsed my piece.

Shit. Of course. In my haste, I had forgotten to carve out a couple hours to prep for this class. (Maybe if I had paid more attention in Statistics then I might have known that the odds of me finishing this semester alive were not-so-fucking-good.)

I mean, I had rehearsed my song during my voice lesson. But that had been a week ago. And only the single time. That wasn’t enough to truly master it and feel confident with the performance. Regardless, I was totally unprepared and minutes away from performing.

Another student had to go before me, though, and before they performed they prefaced their song with an apology.

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to practice. I had to work a double yesterday and forgot about it.”

Then they sang their selection - a fine performance, I thought - and accepted their critique. But I didn’t hear the feedback. I was still cringing at their apology. So I decided to do the opposite.

I walked to the front of the class, mustered every ounce of confidence I could, and sang my heart out for two minutes. When I was finished, I stayed quiet and calmly smiled as if I had been rehearsing my song for weeks. (Another valuable theatre lesson: “Fake it ’til you make it.”)

“That was fantastic, Mark,” my teacher said, “Thank you for being so prepared!” 

I nodded politely and thanked her for the gracious feedback, then sat down with a sigh of relief. 

I learned a valuable lesson in that moment. No matter the situation, you should never apologize. 

The audience doesn’t care if you’re underprepared or got a flat tire ten minutes ago. They don’t care if you got food poisoning last night or just broke up with your girlfriend. They want to be entertained. They want to give you full control for a short period of time and become immersed in your art. 

Your audience doesn’t want to hear excuses - they just want to be transported. If you’re too busy apologizing then there’s no way they will be able to feel moved by your performance.

One of my biggest pet peeves is seeing people apologize for what they do. I make no apologies for being an artist. I make no apologies for “not having a real career”.

I’m not sorry. But even if I was, you’d never know it.