In my quest to broaden my artistic horizons, I’ve started a new—career is too strong a word—artistic pursuit: spoken-word performer.
Now, once upon a time, many many many years ago, I was an actor. I know this probably messes with your perception of quiet, introverted Michael, but there it is. But that was many many many years ago, so when I first started talking about the idea of maybe considering the possibility of taking up spoken-word performing and stage storytelling at some point in a nebulous future, it was kind of terrifying. The kind of terrifying that leaves you quivering behind the couch under a heavy quilt, hugging your confused cat and muttering fevered prayers. Or gibber unintelligibly. Whichever.
The year is 2008. Undaunted by the task of dragging me from behind the couch, and having way more belief in me than I have in myself, Beloved Spouse gave me the birthday gift of Nancy Donoval’s Storytelling Workshop (because Beloved Spouse only buys the best. For my birthday the first year we were married she bought me tickets to go see storyteller and harpist Patrick Ball. I think this is where the seeds of pursuing spoken-word performing were planted). I had a great time at the workshop. Nancy is a fabulous teacher and I learned tons about story and story construction, things I took and used in my career as a writer of fictions. But I never tried to do anything with the skills I learned about performing on stage in front of a live audience. Terrified, I did put in for the MN Fringe Festival in 2010. I don’t get in. I remember being kind of relieved.
Move forward to 2011. I finally suck it up and decide to just do it. Of course, I couldn’t get into spoken-word performing the normal way. You know, do a bunch of workshops, take acting and vocal classes, and perform at open mics for months (or years) to fine-tune your material and delivery. No, I jumped in feet first and off the deep end. I put in for MN Fringe Festival again. The ping-pong ball gods dismissed me, but a show dropped out five days before the festival opened, and I took the slot.
Despite the fact that I was a nervous wreck and actually got a little ill the day before opening the show, it went pretty well. I’d done public readings of my fiction for a number of years, so I wasn’t freaked out being in front of an audience. I knew there was no way I’d be off book in five days, so I didn’t worry about it. I did a quasi-dramatic reading of three original fantasy stories to mostly positive reviews. We finished the run without any disasters and even made a little money.
Next, I lose my mind and audition for Tellebration! 2011, a major storytelling festival held that year at Open Book in downtown Minneapolis. I didn’t really think I was going to get in, but I received an email letting me know I’d been picked for the personal stories track. I rewrote a script I had planned to use for a future MN Fringe Festival, cutting 20 minutes of material. The day before the festival I tell Beloved Spouse to please email them and let them now I can’t do this. I plan to buy a bus ticket to Iowa, change my name, and take up raising llamas.
I did none of these things, instead fulfilling my contract with the festival. I got up on stage, I took a deep breath, and…
Yeah. It went well. Not perfect, but pretty good for an amateur, I thought. That night after the festival closed, the sponsoring organization, NorthStar Storytelling League, hosted a story slam. Well, in for a pound…The competition was terrifying. Some of the biggest names in local spoken-word performing and storytelling signed up to compete. I decided early that my best hope was to not embarrass myself while getting some much needed experience. I was one of the last performers of the night. I stepped up to microphone, took a deep breath and launched into the story.
For three and a half minutes, I was on fire. I don’t know where I vanished to, but the guy up on stage using my body to tell a story about encountering a ghost on Hennepin Avenue was hitting on all cylinders and in complete command of his performance. I came in second place, to my delight and utter bewilderment. I won a bunch of free tickets to a series of storytelling events around the Twin Cities.
And then I stopped and went back to hiding behind the couch clutching my befuddled feline. Whatever confidence I had built up vanished. Beloved Spouse kept poking at me to go to the monthly story slam at Kieran’s, but I kept making excuses. We did see a bunch of storytelling over the next nine months. Mostly the Rockstar Storytellers, but some other great shows a well, especially at MN Fringe Festival 2012. I would watch these fabulous storytellers and think, “Man, I wish I was half as good as they are.”
Finally, the gift certificates I had won for my second place finish were about to expire. Deciding I really needed to see if I could do this or not, I wrote a piece about the life a dollar bill for the MN Story Slam in September, finishing it the afternoon before the slam. I got up on the stage, took a deep and nervous breath, and let the story go. And I came in second place.
I went back this month with a tale about how cats are plotting our demise as a species. I didn’t place, but still gave a strong performance. And I found that I loved listening to all the competing storytellers, learning by paying attention to how they told their own tales and delivered them to the audience.
I realized I’d been doing that all along. I’d been watching storytellers I admire— performers like Nancy Donoval, Phillip Andrew Bennett Low, Rob Callahan, John Dingley, Amy Salloway, Katie Knutson, Katherine Glover, Rik Reppe, and others too numerous to mention—and I was studying their style, their deliveries, how they constructed a tale, how they managed the stage and the audience. I was taking a Master’s Class in storytelling by the simple virtue of being open to what each performer—whether an established professional or a nervous newcomer like me—had to teach with each performance.
There’s no real moral or point to this tale, I just wanted to share this cool new thing I’m doing that brings me joy (and yeah, I know there will also be anger and tears in the future. Anything you feel passionate about in life will bring you frustration at some point) and stretches me as a performer and writer.
Maybe that’s what this blog post is about: remembering to stretch as an artist; to strive and grasp and grow and take chances; to try new and scary things; to be willing to fail, but maybe succeed. To crawl from behind the couch, blink up into the bright light of the table lamp, set the exasperated cat down, and be brave in the face of fear and doubt.
Or maybe it’s about how to stop annoying your cat.