Triad

Everyone always loved Jessica. For as long as she could remember people told her she was going to be famous.

She was a standout onstage. A poised dancer, a beautiful singer. Her talents were equally matched by her simple beauty. She was always the leading lady, always the soloist, always the star.

Thanks to the constant encouragement and support of people around her, she blossomed at a young age. Her mentors had been grooming her for years and by the time she was 18 she had "made it".

She skipped college and went straight to Broadway. She dazzled the critics eight shows a week, earning rave reviews and nonstop praise.

"A prodigy!" they exclaimed and threw roses to the stage. Occasionally the show would take a break so she could shoot a movie or TV project, but even when the show was dark her name was still in lights. All of her dreams were coming true and she still had her whole life ahead of her.

Then, there was Stephen. He was born in the wrong time. His favorite singers were long gone and he would tell everyone he met that "they don't make movies like they used to."

But no one really paid attention to Stephen. It took months for his professors to remember his name and even longer to earn their respect. He struggled to decide what he wanted out of life.

He loved playing guitar but there was also creative writing and painting. He sang in an a cappella group and took pictures. There were so many things he wanted to do and not enough time.

Exhausted from wearing so many hats, Stephen closed off from the world for years. He wouldn't pursue a project for fear of something better coming along. Scared of wasting time doing something, he did nothing.

Then, Stephen had a lucky break. A friend of a friend passed one of his short films along to a festival. The reviews were glowing. Stephen didn't know it yet but he was about to make a big leap forward. He was a filmmaker, screenwriter, and composer now. All of his talents had come together in a strange, unforeseeable way.

And then there was Charles. By the time Charles could talk he knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up.

"I want to be a rock star!" he'd say to family and friends. "I'm going to be famous!"

No one took Charles seriously, but he didn't care. He didn't have time for negativity because he was too busy working on his music. He'd pack out his mom's two car garage for a Saturday night concert and sell his album in the subway. With laser focus, he never lost sight of his dream.

Decades passed and Charles kept working, making small incremental progress towards his dreams. His albums sales slowly increased and his fan base grew. He paid his dues over and over and over again. Several hundred concerts later and he found himself seated on the couch next to Jessica and Stephen.

The host walked out, told a few jokes, then introduced the guests.

"Let's find out how you three ended up here tonight!" the host said.

Jessica, Stephen, and Charles shrugged. It didn't really matter how they'd gotten here. They were all in the same place now.

Work

I’m in the business of creating moments. Moments of wonder. Moments of amazement. Moments of truth. Moments of mystery.

Let’s assume there’s no such thing as real magic (there isn’t) and I can’t really read your mind (I can’t). Then what’s the point of coming to my show?

Those moments.

The goal of my show isn’t to trick people into thinking I have psychic powers. It’s not about claiming supernatural abilities. The goal is to leave  the audience with a beautiful mystery.

Simple as that.

All of my free time is spent thinking about making something out of those moments. On the treadmill, in the shower, stuck in traffic, waiting in line at the airport - that’s all I’m thinking about.

It usually starts with a question:

How do I give my audience the most incredible mystery possible?

The ideas start as a far-fetched pipe dream then morph into a more realistic, real world version. That evolution takes a long time.

Then, I have to build the idea and rehearse it. I have to find the words and let them become part of me.

Finally, after months (or years) of preparation I have to bite the bullet and try it out onstage. That’s the only way to truly discover if the idea is any good. 

That’s when the “real work” begins. The script gets torn apart and reassembled. The blocking starts to make sense. The idea gets better.

The “real work” takes forever. FOREVER. It’s a slow process, with constant roadblocks and distractions. But, I can speed it up slightly if I’m willing to listen.

I have to:
• Listen to myself and trust in my ideas.
• Listen to my peers.
• Most importantly, listen to my audience.

Are they bored? Are they paying attention? Do they care about the mystery as much as I do?

It’s a lot of work.

And that’s only the work the audience gets to see. There’s plenty of work that goes on behind the scenes. Creating mysteries is all about being willing to work harder than anyone could possibly dream of. If the audience’s only solution for my performance is a NASA-level-Rube-Goldberg-style-machine-that-could-only-exist-in-an-MC-Escher-world then people stop trying to work it out and simply enjoy the mystery.

A couple years ago I overheard two performers talking after a show. One performer explained the preparation and practice he had put into his show in great detail. He was proud of the time he spent crafting the moment and happily shared his behind-the-scenes POV.

“Oh I could never do that,” the other performer responded, “that’s too much work.”

TOO MUCH WORK?

Get the fuck out of here.

I get it. Work isn’t fun. It can be agonizing and downright boring. But if mastering your craft is too much work for you then find a 9-to-5 and settle in. Work isn’t easy - it’s not supposed to be.

That’s what makes it worthwhile. I go the extra mile (and then some) so my audience can experience something jaw-dropping and unforgettable.

Enough said. Time to get back to work.

Respect

When I was a child everyone told me that you should be kind to others.

“Always treat others with respect,” they said “and you’ll go a long way.”

When I first moved to Chicago, I remember doing a cabaret show that only had four people in the audience. It wasn’t for pay and it wasn’t glamorous - but it was a show. I was getting stage time and that was good enough for me.

In the back of the room was a comedian who was also on the lineup. He had a bad attitude and was talking loudly about how the show was a huge waste of time. He was rude to everyone in the room, including the host and bartender.

When it was my time to perform I was forced to call on that comic for assistance. He basically called my act stupid and reiterated how lame the show had been.  My act had been ruined, just like everyone else who had gone onstage before me.

I’ve never forgotten the way that performer treated me that night. I’ve seen him do other shows since then but all I can think about is how disrespectful he was during that small show six years ago.

Luckily his career never amounted to anything, probably because he was a jerk to everyone he met. It just goes to show how important it is to treat everyone you meet with respect.

Actually - I’m totally kidding. That guy writes for SNL now. He’s a successful comic and has been featured on major TV shows and podcasts. He has a big following and is doing quite well.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter if you’re incredibly kind or an absolute jerk. You can treat people like dirt and still have a successful career. You might even end up being president! 

That advice should actually read something like “Always treat others with respect because it’s the right thing to do.”

It may not mean you’re successful and it might not help you “go a long way” but in the end you’ll be glad you did.

The real question is: How do you want to be remembered?

Connect The Dots

This is a dot:

•

Let’s say that dot represents my artistic aspirations. My performance dreams and goals and ideas are all crammed into that tiny black circle.

I have a vision for what I want out of mind reading as an art form. It doesn’t involve spectacle and it doesn’t involve laser beams. It’s not bigger than life and it’s not death-defying. It’s different than anything that’s been done before. It’s beautiful and mysterious and resonant and transcendent. That dot is what I see when I’m sitting in my own little corner.

Now look at this dot:

•

Looks the same, right?

It’s not. That dot represents what I have to do to be a full-time entertainer. It represents sacrifice and collaboration. The truth of being a successful entertainer is a muddled pile of meeting-in-the-middle and putting your dreams on hold. That’s a messy dot.

Right now, the dots look something like this:

•        •

Pretty close. Side by side. Learning to co-exist.

Right now I get to do projects that fulfill my artistic goals and I get to do projects that pay the bills. Once in a great while those projects might even overlap. Most of the time, however, those projects are independent endeavors.

As my career progresses and more opportunities present themselves I find myself being faced with a dilemma.

If I was willing to sacrifice the “artistic dot” for awhile the “success dot” could climb to levels that were previously unheard of. Then, the “success dot” could take me places I’ve always wanted to go and might not get to go otherwise.

Those dots might look something like this:

•                                                     •

There are my artistic ideas way off to one side - out of sight, forgotten, on the back burner. They sit as far as possible from my level of success and who knows when I’ll be able to revisit them again?

I hate the thought of that. I despise sacrifice - having to “play the game” so I can get ahead. If other well-known artists throughout history could stay true to themselves, why can’t I? Why can’t I keep my integrity and turn my creative vision into a reality?

That’s the dream, after all. I didn’t get into this to be a corporate shill or a motivational speaker. I’m not looking for endorsements or reality show credits. I’m here for the art.

I’m here to turn this upside down and inside out and make something that wasn’t there when I started. I’m here to do something different than has ever been done before. I’m here to finish the hat.

And the only way to do that is to get the dots to start moving together, slowly but surely, until one day they’re indistinguishable. It’s taken a lot of shitty offers but I finally get it.

Now it's time to connect the dots.

•

Responsibility

I’m perpetually amazed at how many people have never seen a mind reader. They come up to me after my show and say “This is the first mind reading show I’ve ever seen. It was amazing!”

You see, I watch mind reading shows all the time. And when you become so engrossed in your own world you often forget that other people may not be as familiar with it as you are.

So when I first realized that I was quite likely the first (and possibly only) mind reader my audience members would ever see, I realized I owed it to those people to give them the best possible experience I can.

That means there’s no time for amateur hour. You won’t see me stumbling over my words or performing a half-finished script. I won’t be practicing new material in front of a crowd or apologizing when things go wrong.

I will do what I’ve done for every job I’ve ever held: arrive early, leave late, and be ridiculously over-prepared.

I remember trying to book a show back in college and having the client say “Oh we tried a mind reader once and it was awful. We’ll never make that mistake again.”

I was stunned. Not only did that unknown performer ruin that opportunity for me but they also ruined it for any future performers who might have the same chance to book that gig. What a shame.

Whatever your discipline, we all have an obligation to the people who encounter us. We must get these people to see what we do in a good light, to understand that what we do matters - no matter how small or insignificant that encounter may be.

Sometimes I get flown into major cities to perform for small audiences. I’m talking ten or fifteen people - the kind of audience where I know everyone’s name five minutes into the night. I treat those shows the same way I treat my large thousand person corporate audiences - by trying to give the guests an unforgettable experience.

Hopefully they’ll leave the party raving about the “amazing mind reader” they just witnessed and talk about it for weeks. They’ll forever associate “mind reading” with a positive feeling from that short time we shared together. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll want to work with another mind reader someday, too.

It doesn’t matter how big or small the audience is. It doesn’t matter the size of the room, the city, or time of day. I’m here to make sure my audiences leave with a fascination and admiration for my chosen profession.

Treat what you do with respect and people will care about it like you do. Don’t phone it in and don’t brush it off like it’s silly or unimportant. That’s just a waste of everyone’s time.

You have a responsibility. Yes, YOU.

You have to educate others without being preachy. You have to encourage others without being overbearing. You have to share your passion with others so they will always remember how great it is.

If you don’t do it for yourself at least do it out of respect for the people who do what you do, too.

Hecklers

In college I had to make a list of my career goals for a class assignment. Never one to hold back, I listed big dreams that I’d had since I was five years old. Among others, the list included:

• Have my own TV show.
• Be represented by major Hollywood entertainment agencies.
• Travel the world as a performer. 

And on and on and on.

I filled over two pages with goals I’d had for years. I took the assignment seriously, thinking that it was my chance to get honest feedback from a professor whose job was to encourage and inspire students.

I was wrong.

My teacher scanned the pages, reading my goals silently as I waited for approval and assistance. Then, they laughed out loud.

They laughed at me.

I was embarrassed. I had taken the time to be personal and share my actual goals. My honesty was met with ridicule.

When you pursue a career in the arts, hecklers abound. Everyone wants to tell you how wrong you are and how hard it’s going to be. Everyone wants to tell you how it’s supposed to be done and what they’d do if they were you. Everyone has an opinion.

The funny thing is, the people with opinions aren’t out there doing it. They aren’t making calls and knocking on doors. They aren’t failing onstage night after night so they can take tiny steps closer to a dream.

They just want to tell you what you’re doing wrong.

I’ve had hecklers my whole life. Family, friends, teachers, clients - you name it. Hecklers are everywhere.

It takes a special kind of person to deal with a heckler. You need a thick skin and self-confidence. You have to believe in your goals and be willing to ignore anyone who says they aren’t realistic.

I’ve never been one to succumb to negativity. When my basketball coach yelled at me for “not hustling” I would get angry that my effort had not been recognized. So I’d blow everyone away on the next sprint drill just to make a point. If he kept trying to wear me out, I’d run faster. I’d run faster and faster until I could see the frustrated look on his face. Finally, he would give up and let us get back to practice. You can only stay mad at someone who is out in front for so long.

My biggest motivators are hecklers. The trolls, the haters, the skeptics, the doubters - they’re all yelling at me and I’ve got my toes on the line waiting for the whistle to blow. The more they dismiss me, the harder I work.

They can laugh all they want. Meanwhile, I’ll be here checking off that list of goals.

Apologies

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.

No

I had a big idea for a show once that no one was interested in. Months of work led to nothing. No one returned my calls, no one replied to my emails.

Nothing came of it.

I played the game and waited years until an entertainment agency decided to represent me. But they weren’t serious like I was. For me, it was a big break - my big chance to prove how good I truly was. For them, I was just another artist on the roster.

Nothing came of it.

I stumbled into big meetings when I was sleeping on couches in Los Angeles. I tried to dazzle Hollywood agents who had “seen it all” but they yawned and showed me the door.

I wrote a TV series but no one took notice. I signed with a manager who didn’t work on my behalf. I sent thousands of postcards and never got a response.

Nothing came of it…but I didn’t let that stop me.

A “No” is a good thing. It makes you prove how badly you want something. Every “No” I’ve ever received has led to some of my best opportunities.

The hard part is not taking a “No” personally. Every time a door closes you have to shrug it off and move on to the next idea. Nothing - and I mean NOTHING - can singlehandedly make or break a career. No gig, meeting, conference call, TV appearance, or special project can define you. Just keep moving forward. Keep working towards that magic word: “YES”.

One of the hardest “No’s” I ever received was when I got engaged to Stephie. People told me we weren’t right for each other. People I thought were friends deserted me and didn’t support MY decision. But I went through with it. I married my college sweetheart and it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

I just got off the phone with a big contact - a huge opportunity that may or may not come through. I’ve been slowly working towards this goal for years but I don’t know if it’ll happen this time or not.

After that conversation ended I called my wife and told her about it. She was cautiously excited - typical Stephie - and I told her that I wasn't sure it would amount to anything.

“You think another ‘No’ is going to stop us?” she asked me.

God, I’m glad I didn’t let those “No’s” keep me from saying “Yes” to her.

Amos

Every morning when I wake up my cat Amos is waiting for me on the other side of the bedroom door. He follows me around the apartment, from the bathroom to the hallway to the kitchen. He jumps up on the counter while I make coffee then lays next to my computer while I check my email.

He’s my favorite.

Amos is an enigma. He’s always just out of reach. His brother will sit on your lap while you watch a movie, but Amos? He’s at the other end of the couch, impossible to pet but part of the action all the same.

He likes water. Most mornings he’ll jump in the bathtub and roll around on the wet surface. If he’s feeling particularly feisty he’ll be really noisy, too. He’ll meow from around the corner and I’ll respond. Then he’ll come trotting into the other room for approval.

Amos is probably a little too big for a cat. He just loves to eat. If we aren’t careful he’ll finish his portion and start to eat his brother’s helping, too.

He’s figured out how to open the drawer underneath my side of the bed. I’ll come home from a long trip and the drawer will be partially cracked. If you reach your arm under the bed you might feel a tail or a paw, but that’s it. 

Like I said, he’s always out of reach.

Today I flew to NYC for a show while Stephie took Amos to the vet. He was overdue for a teeth cleaning. I came out of my show to learn that he had not been able to recover fully from the anesthesia. He wasn’t really moving and wouldn’t eat. Stephanie was distraught and not sure what to do.

Minutes before I had gotten a roomful of strangers to laugh and experience some wonder. I had chipped away at their New York cynicism until the dam broke and they witnessed something amazing. But the second I was offstage, I wasn’t even thinking about that. I just wanted to be home.

It sounds silly but my family is my wife and my two cats. These little boys have been with us since the beginning and I love them with all of my heart.

They were a gift to Stephanie while we were engaged. Her grandma had passed away and I was working a ton. Unable to be around as much as I wanted, I decided she deserved a furry companion to keep her happy while I was gone.

But when Stephie saw these brothers climbing their cage and longing for love she looked at me and I could tell she had made up her mind. It didn’t take a mind reader to know we were the proud new owners of not one but two cute kitties.

When we first got them my allergies were so awful that we were convinced we would have to return them to the shelter. But several weeks passed and my allergies disappeared. The cats could stay.

When I had shoulder surgery I would lay on the couch unable to move or work. Amos stayed nearby, watching over me to make sure everything was okay.

These two have travelled across the country from Wichita to Chicago to Florida and back to Chicago. They’ve been through a lot because of our unorthodox lifestyle. Even so, they’ve remained sweet and kind and always put a smile on my face.

It’s funny, because that’s exactly what I do for a living, too. I get to travel the country making people happy. And I absolutely love what I do.

I love making people smile. I love sharing joy and wonder. I love creating a mystery that can cause an entire room of adults to gasp in amazement.

But I love my family more.

I love my simple life in Chicago with my wife and my two best friends. I love trying to send e-mails while Amos walks across my keyboard. I love locking him out of the bedroom at night knowing he’ll be waiting to greet me in the morning.

Knowing he’s back in Chicago and not himself brings tears to my eyes. It makes me sad to know that my little buddy isn’t his usual energetic self. 

After my show, I walked the streets of Lower Manhattan surrounded by New Yorkers in all directions. But I was alone. I felt helpless. I could offer words of compassion from afar but there wasn’t anything else I could do.

He’s always just out of reach.