Stick With It

This is my 45th “Thursday Thoughts” entry. Between 44 and 45 something interesting happened. I got an email from someone that started with the following:

““Hi Mark,

I stumbled across your blog and was fascinated with your love of theatre, writing, and mentalism. I’d love to have you perform at our upcoming event in New York…””

That's right. It took me 44 posts but I just booked a show from my blog.

That was never the intention, of course. I just started writing because I enjoy it. I’ve had multiple blogs throughout the years, covering a wide range of topics, but this is the longest I’ve stuck with it. It just feels right, like I’ve finally started to find a voice and have important stuff to say.

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I write next Thursday’s post on last Friday. Other days I don’t get around to it until I’m at the airport early Thursday morning. But I haven’t missed a day and I guess people are actually reading.

I’ve considered putting the blog on hold so I could focus on other things. It takes a lot of time each week to craft a post that I’m proud of. I could easily spend that time working on more important, lucrative, tangible projects. But I enjoy it, so I keep writing.

And after 45 essays, 239 drafts, 106 abandoned topics, many late nights and early mornings, that’s the best advice I can give you.

I’m not saying you should start a blog or try to be a writer. I’m just saying that whatever you’re doing, you should keep at it. 

There will come a time when it feels pointless and you don’t want to keep doing whatever you’re doing any more. When that time comes, that’s when you need to work even harder.

That’s the moment when you have to give whatever you’re doing all you have because that’s the moment that matters the most. If you persevere and push through your roadblocks then there’s something great waiting for you on the other side.

Whatever you’re doing, you’ve gotta stick with it.

Perfection

My office is a mess. My personal closet needs some serious attention. Things that don't directly relate to my work get thrown aside and forgotten.

Yet, my show is a well-oiled machine. My travel bag is always packed the same way and ready to go at a moment's notice. When it comes to what matters most to me, I'm a perfectionist.

Everything I need to perform my show is meticulously labeled and organized. Props are separated by type and size, then alphabetized and numbered. Everything has a place and everything gets used. It has a very American Psycho vibe...in that if you touch my stuff I might kill you.

Onstage, I'm constantly seeking perfection. I'm not simply satisfied with a good performance. If they applaud, then I want them to stand. If they laugh, I need it to be louder. If the show gets reviewed then I'll be disappointed if they didn't completely get it...even if it's a five-star review.

I'm insatiable.

Sometimes 99% of the audience will be on board but I'll spot the one person who isn't enjoying it. The rest of the show becomes a battle to win that person over.

After a show I only remember what went wrong. I'll fume about the little things for hours...until another show replaces those memories with new mistakes.

Sometimes I wonder if it will ever be enough. Will I have the show that pushes me over the edge and allows me to be fully fulfilled with what I do? Or will I forever be chasing a goal that keeps shifting and changing over time?

And why am I such a perfectionist about some things, but not others?

What if the thing you like most about yourself is also the thing that keeps you from being totally satisfied?

I don't expect answers, I'm just thinking out loud here. Besides, your answers probably won't satisfy me either.

On The Fringe

I’m two weeks into The Mystery Tour. So far I’ve performed nine shows, had one TV appearance, found my way into several newspaper articles, and even won an award - “Patrons Pick” at the Orlando Fringe! It’s been an exhausting but rewarding fortnight.

I’ve also met some seriously talented people - writers, creators, performers, dancers, comedians, artists - who have the same drive and desire to perform as I do. All I want in life is to be surrounded by creative people. I guess I may have to permanently live on the fringe circuit.

After my Orlando Fringe experience I think I’m supposed to be doing this. I have a Type-A-don’t-take-no-for-an-answer-unrelenting-persistent-personality that never lets up. It’s perfect for fringe.

When you aren’t performing at the festival you spend the day promoting. If you hate talking to strangers or talking about yourself, then this might not be for you. Just today alone I walked four or five miles to hang up posters, lay out postcards, and tell people about my show. 

The conversation always goes like this:

“I have a mind reading show in the festival! Please come if you can.”

“Shouldn’t you know if I’m coming or not?” the person replies, thinking that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that joke.

“I was just being polite. You’ll be at my second show. It’s Saturday at 8.”

They laugh awkwardly as I stare back, then cautiously take the postcard I’m offering them.

Imagine having that conversation a hundred times or more every day. That’s what fringe is like.

Fringe teaches you how to succeed anywhere. You’re thrust into a space with a thrust stage or boxed into a black box. Sometimes there’s no air conditioning and other times it’s freezing. You learn to do your show anywhere and make it look effortless.

Fringe teaches you to coexist with people from all genres. In a world where lines are constantly being drawn, a fringe festival blurs them so anyone from musicians to mind readers to storytellers to sketch comedians can share the stage without fear of judgment.

Luckily for me, I’ve already been doing this in the college and corporate market. I’ve been sharing a wide range of stages with a wide range of performers for years. I’ve been a shameless self-promoter since kindergarten.

That's not to say fringing doesn't come with its share of challenges.

I've slept less than four hours every night for two weeks. Last week I flew back to Chicago for a show then right back to Orlando to finish the fringe. I got sick from the trip but was able to recover within 48 hours thanks to some drugs and a whole lot of water.

I'm living out of a suitcase, eating sporadically, and learning from the mistakes I made just 5 minutes ago. But this is the life I've always wanted and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Like I said, I’m supposed to be doing this.

---

Catch me live at the London Fringe in Ontario over the next ten days! Click here to buy tickets.

Discovery

Last night a man approached me before my performance with one of the stranger comments I’ve heard in a while.

“I just wanted to let you know,” he said, “that I’m going to be sitting in the front row so I can take notes during your show. Hopefully it won’t distract you too much.”

I’m not making this up.

He told me he had an interest in mentalism and was hoping to learn more about it from watching me. I kindly explained to him that it would, in fact, be extremely distracting and asked him to wait until intermission to write down anything he had learned. 

Then, the show began. I took the stage and there was this man, sitting in the front row with a notebook and pen ready to go, completely ignoring my pre-show request.

So I tried to involve this man as much as I could. I gave him tasks and made eye contact. Over time, he wrote less and watched more.

What was I supposed to do?

I couldn’t scold the man in front of the audience. I didn’t want to lose 99% of the audience by being slightly rude to one person. When you’re onstage you learn to pick your battles.

You learn everything onstage.

When I first started performing I had no clue how to do a full show. I knew I needed a solid hour but it seemed like an insurmountable challenge. So I went in search of answers.

I devoured everything on YouTube and TV. I drove long hours to watch other performers. After their shows, I’d sit in the car with my wife and discuss everything we’d just seen: pacing, scripting, choreography, music, promo, merchandise, audience management, showmanship, choice of material, etc.

Back then, those were big discoveries that helped shape my act. But you can only learn so much offstage. I needed to do as many shows as possible.

That's how I learned to put an act together and what it feels like to spend an hour onstage. I discovered how to present to different audiences and how to make something truly entertaining.

After a while, the discoveries get smaller. Once you have a show in place, you start working on the small, precise details. You figure out how to motivate your actions and eliminate the “uh’s” and “um’s”.  You insert a joke here and edit out the other one.  Ironically, the smaller the discovery is, the bigger a difference it starts to make.

A week ago I realized that I had been delivering a joke completely wrong. I was placing emphasis on this word instead of that word. Onstage, I made the choice to deliver it in a new way and, lo and behold, I discovered a better way of doing it.

Eureka!

It takes hundreds of shows to get to that point. You need time to trip over your words and misplace your props first. Then, over time, the show gets better and you start to work on the details. There’s no shortcut here - it just takes time.

I love knowing that something may go wrong tonight and I’ll need to learn how to fix it on the fly. Or maybe the audience doesn’t care about my opening story so it’s time to get rid of it.

There’s always something something left to discover. That’s part of the joy of live theater. That’s why I love doing this so much.

In the last week alone I restructured the first act of my show, fixed a joke, and changed my blocking during the finale. I even know what to do now if someone ever wants to take notes in the front row again.

I can’t wait to see what discoveries await me tonight.

Good

I had a good show recently. Maybe even a great show.

I’m talking a 4.5 out of 5. Or a 9 out of 10.

The kind of show where everything connects. Where even the lines that aren’t funny get laughs and even the moments that aren’t amazing get gasps.

A good show is like a hard reset. Three rough days in a row can be instantly forgotten after a great performance.

A good show negates negativity and changes my entire outlook. A good show means I can keep going because I must be getting better. A good show means that, every one in a while, I’m good enough to share something special with a roomful of strangers. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to do it again.

Good shows are the goal but bad shows are how you get good. I rarely learn from a good performance because autopilot kicks in and carries me to the finale. The best performances I’ve ever had are a blur but I can tell you every detail of my worst shows. They’re too painful to forget.

A good show is like a carrot, dangling on a stick. It’s a mirage at the end of the highway - just out of reach, just around the corner.

A good show is an unexplainable, unattainable goal. The better you get, the better the show must be. The more you learn, the more you have to learn. 

Yet every now and then, I surpass what I know. I reach a level of transcendence that I never knew existed. My skills and words align in an unforeseeable symbiotic relationship.

That’s what happened the other night - under the lights, onstage, in front of a hundred people I’ve never met.

I had an in-the-moment-firing-on-all-cylinders-out-of-body-experience downstage center. And for an hour I forgot about that cup of coffee I spilled before the show and the conference call I’m doing tomorrow. 

For an instant, I was better than I knew I could be. I was better than I’ve ever been.

In that moment, I was good. Maybe even great.

Stuck

Last summer I made a goal to write more.

Since then, I’ve written something nearly every day. Sometimes it’s a list, sometimes it’s a poem, sometimes it’s an essay. Most of the time I don’t publish them. They just sit in a folder on my desktop waiting for further refinement.

I’ve always enjoyed writing but I’d never taken it as seriously as I have for the last nine months. It’s become a daily form of catharsis. I get an idea for something - usually on a run or backstage at a show - then race to my notebook and write it down.

It takes coffee and focused energy to turn that idea into a finished essay. It’s a good feeling to finish something every week. I have a self-imposed deadline and it keeps me on track.

Until this week. This week I got stuck.

I’m not sure if it’s the looming summer tour or the endless to-do list of condo repairs back in Chicago. Maybe it’s the warmer weather or because I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I know one thing, though, it’s not because I’m out of ideas.

I have a million of them. Ideas, I mean. I keep a list of each and every one, carefully indexed on my phone and MacBook. I’m never at a loss for what to write about because I view everything as an art project.  Everything that happens to me gets filed away in my ideas folder, waiting to “volunteer as tribute” for this week’s Thursday Thoughts. Eventually I pick an idea, sit down to write, and don’t stop until I’m finished.

I followed the same formula this week. I picked a topic and wrote an essay. It was okay, but not great. So I wrote another draft. And another. I had a couple people read them and give me honest feedback. It wasn’t good to hear - but they were just being honest.

So I picked a new idea and started from scratch but it didn’t amount to anything. I paced my hotel room and stared blankly out the window of my flight into New York. I practiced calligraphy in my notebook (a favorite hobby) but the letters weren’t forming any meaningful words - just doodles in the margins.

I was stuck.

It’s not that the ideas were stupid or that the essays were terrible. They just weren’t ready, you know? They were unfinished and incomplete. I didn’t want to share something if I didn’t think it was good enough.

When I started Thursday Thoughts back in August, I did it on two conditions:

1) I would publish an essay every Thursday, without fail.
2) The essay had to be positive. 

I found myself needing a place to rant. A place to complain or voice frustrations with the rigors of a creative life. A blog seemed like the perfect place. But the more I thought about it, the more I didn’t want my writing to be full of negativity. I wanted to see if I could take something that was bothering me and put an optimistic spin on it.

That’s why the essays weren’t ready. They weren’t fully formed and were too negative to publish here. They weren’t helpful or constructive. They were just me getting a few things off my chest.

Was it good to get them off my mind? Absolutely. But that’s all. I’ll keep revisiting those topics until I can find a way to share them in a positive light.

Recently, someone told me they wanted to start a blog but they didn’t know what to write about that.

My advice? “Write about that.”

That’s exactly what I’m doing now. I’m turning my lack of concrete ideas into a post because that’s the best I can do this week. But I have seven or eight unfinished essays that are soon to follow.

I don’t know when they’ll be ready but I’m going to keep working on them. And I’ll be back next week with another new essay because Thursday Thoughts is not going anywhere.

I want to be able to say that I stuck with it - even when I was stuck.

The Voice

You know that voice that tells you not to take a risk? The voice that stops you in your tracks when you’re trying to take the next step? It’s the kind of voice that says your creative ideas aren’t good enough or maybe you aren’t good enough either.

Do you know the voice I’m talking about?

Well, I don’t have that voice.

Maybe it comes from naively believing I could do anything I wanted when I was younger. Growing up in a small town allowed me to be involved in as many activities as I wanted. I was a top-ten state tennis finalist and a state champion improvisational actor. I was an Eagle Scout and Valedictorian. I starred in the school play and played saxophone in the jazz band. I did everything I wanted to the best of my ability.

Or maybe it’s because I know that the voice is just wasting my time. I see people succeeding in my field and know that they weren’t always that successful. They had to start somewhere, right? So instead of letting the voice tell me I don’t deserve to be there I just remind myself that I’m just not there yet.

The voice is in your head. It’s your thoughts and fears trying to convince you to give up on what you want to do. I refuse to let myself stand in the way of achieving my goals. I refuse to let the voice speak its mind.

I know what you’re thinking. (That’s my job.) You’re saying, “Come on. Everyone has to deal with the voice.”

Nope. Maybe everyone else. But not me. 

Don’t believe me? Ask my wife.

She’ll tell you that if I want to do something badly enough I pursue it relentlessly until I’ve succeeded. If something interests me then I chase it down and make it mine. I’m fully convinced that I can do anything I set my mind to because I don’t have the voice.

A few years ago we went skiing for our second anniversary. Being from Kansas, I’d never been skiing before but by the end of the trip I was convinced I could conquer any slope at the resort. I still am.

She had to talk me off the cliff: “Skiing gear is expensive. We live in the city - not near any ski resorts. You don’t have time to start driving each weekend just to take up a new hobby.”

She was right, of course. She always is. I don’t have the time for a new hobby and so I didn’t pursue skiing. But you might have noticed what my wife didn’t say. She didn’t tell me I couldn’t be a skier. She knows better than that.

Even if she had, I wouldn’t have believed her. No voice can convince me I can’t do what I want to do. Not even the voice. I shut it up a long time ago.

I Can't Turn It Off

I have a problem.

It keeps me from socializing and building friendships. It prevents me from living a normal life or pursuing something for “the fun of it”. It makes it incredibly hard to be around me.

I couldn’t always place a finger on it but I see it now. I see how damaging it can be. I see the toll it takes on my relationships and my personal life.

Problem is, the problem I have is unfixable. It’s the only way I know how to be.

My problem is I can’t turn it off.

By “it” I mean my desire to be creative and artistic. My need to express myself creatively is an overwhelming urge that can’t be put to rest.

Everything I see becomes an art project. Everything I come across has the potential to inspire a new project for me to work on. It doesn’t matter how random it is, I’ll find a way to turn it into a script idea, a new idea for my show, a topic for “Thursday Thoughts”, a photo for Instagram, or something else entirely. The list goes on and on.

My ideas are never-ending. The more I create the more I find myself being constantly inspired. I write essays everyday, most of which I never publish. But I have to write them, just so I can get the thoughts out of my head.

I don’t say this in a boastful, “I have amazing ideas! I’m more creative than you are!” kind of way. I’m just being honest. I’m constantly working on new creative ideas and I can’t turn it off.

My wife helps me with this. She steers the dinner conversation in a better direction and tries to get me to talk about something else. But by the time the appetizers are being taken away my mind has wandered back to page 37 of the new script I’m working on. I can’t tell you what I think of the weather or your weekend plans because I’m too busy wondering which version of the new joke I’m writing will work best for my theater show.

Heaven forbid you ask me for feedback after a performance. Deep down, I realize that you probably didn’t want feedback. What you wanted was a quick compliment and seal of approval. Instead, I’ll probably take you at your word and want to discuss technique - usually writing, acting, mentalism, magic, and more. My wife squeezes my hand and says “What Mark means is that he really enjoyed it.”

I did enjoy it. But I guess my definition of feedback is different from yours.

What I’m trying to say is I don’t have time for smalltalk or useless situations because my mind won’t let me. I only have time for art because that’s all I know how to do.

I don’t like parties. Or beer. If I have to go I always bring my notebook and usually hide somewhere so I can work on something new. Fun, I know.

I hate going to loud venues. “Wouldn’t it be better to sit and talk somewhere?” I usually ask, hoping my friends are down to talk art. Instead, they are usually just up for a good time. So I scribble thoughts on a napkin and think about tomorrow night’s show.

I hate being bored so I never am. When everything’s an art project, everything worth doing is worthwhile. And if it’s not worthwhile, it probably wasn’t worth doing.

Even in the process of writing this essay I’ve gotten distracted four times. I searched YouTube for an old video on acting technique that I was thinking about last weekend. And I opened three other documents to start other essay ideas for future blog posts.

I. Can’t. Turn. It. Off.

I know it makes me sound crazy. It makes me sound annoying and frustrating to be around. I get that, I really do.

I have a loving, caring wife who patiently listens to every idea and encourages me every step of the way. She understands how I function and stays out of my way. But it drives her crazy. It must. I’m a constant-barrage-of-new-information-and-inspiration-delivered-in-her-general-direction-at-breakneck-speed-24-7-365. How she puts up with it, I’ll never know.

I have a problem. A personal trait that drives me and compels me to get better everyday. It’s helped me win awards and allowed me to follow my dreams. It’s the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep.

It’s also a nuisance and a pain in the ass. It makes it difficult to talk to me and generally not very much fun to be around in a social setting. It makes it hard for me to want to do anything else.

But it’s who I am. It’s the most honest version of myself and the reason I keep doing what I do. It's the part of me that makes life worth living. I'm fully aware of it but I still can't turn it off.

Or maybe, I just don't want to.

Relevance

I read a critic’s thoughts recently that formed the basis for this essay. Long story short, they were convinced that mentalism was no longer relevant and it wasn’t going to be around much longer.

Now, dear readers, for those of you who aren’t fully immersed in the dark arts like I am, let me explain what mentalism is. According to Wikipedia, mentalism is the branch of magic that deals with highly advanced mental abilities.

Clearly, as a mind reader this critic’s viewpoint really frustrated me.

After I read their opinion I fumed for an entire day. (It wasn't even about my show! I just can't stop thinking about things sometimes.) I was furious that someone thought my art form was becoming irrelevant. I happened to be traveling that day so I spent much of the afternoon alone in my room, pacing and playing a round of “if I was talking to that critic in person what would I say”. 

(Side note: I won that round.)

Then, something amazing happened. I heard a ping from my laptop across the room and walked over to discover a perfectly timed message waiting for me in my inbox. 

The e-mail was from an audience member who attended a recent show. I’ve redacted any personal information but here’s the body of the e-mail so you can read for yourself:

This e-mail made my day.

See, the key to being relevant has nothing to do with your art form and everything to do with what you're trying to say. I'm constantly trying to share a part of me onstage - it just happens that mentalism is my vehicle for doing so.

I used to think I needed to tackle some big, lofty concepts in order to be an artist. I thought if I could somehow be smarter and more profound then that would help me fully relate to my audiences. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. The more personal and honest you make your performances, the more relevant they become.

It's like when a comedian makes a clever, observational joke about something really mundane and you laugh to yourself, thinking "That's so true!"

It's because deep down we all have the same personal experiences. We have the same hopes and fears and dreams and thoughts about life. We're all just doing our best to get through the day and sometimes we need art to remind us of that.

I can't speak for that "critic" but I can tell you what my audience is saying. I know because I listen to them after my shows.

They're moved and changed, inspired and enlightened, amazed and delighted. According to them, what I do is more relevant than ever.

According to them, that critic is wrong.