When I was much, much younger, all the world was a stage, and I was more than happy to be one of the players. I had a hard time shutting off that thing that makes me an actor, and most of the time, I was “on” in some way or another.
It got to be a little obnoxious, I think, but as the I portion of my INFP began to assert itself, I found that I was happier when I was out of the spotlight. Sure, I’m very happy to be on a stage, but I prefer that stage to be in a theatre, rather than constantly under my feet.
This morning I wrote: “. . . and that’s when I realized that I was really a writer: the day I started treating every experience I had as an opportunity to get a good story . . .”
I guess the world is still a stage, I still have my exits and entrances, and in my time I’ve played many parts . . . but right now, I play the part of The Writer.
This creates a bit of a conflict when I am supposed to be The Actor.
I drove to the Music Center for my audition today. I would have taken the train, but I lost track of time at home — wait for it — writing. It’s about a 45 minute commitment to take the Metro, and I can drive it in 20 minutes, so drive it I did. The entire way there, I put myself into The Actor’s space: I must look crazy to other drivers, talking to myself about why the character does this thing, and what made him to that other thing, gesturing wildly, and occasionally shouting out dialogue. By the time I got to my audition, I was The Actor.
As soon as I walked into the building, The Writer completely took over. Without realizing it, I absorbed every detail I saw: the beautiful black and white photos of actors on stage at the Taper, the Ahmanson, the Chandler. The huge blow-ups of Playbills, posters, and programs, representing decades of shows. The actors quietly walking down the halls to rehearsals and workshops, their minds clearly locked deep into the scripts they clutched in their hands. The barely audible sound of a singer and a piano drifting up the halls from an unseen rehearsal room, working its way past those photos and posters to meet my ears while I signed-in.
There is this intangible thing that makes theatre completely different from everything else I do as an actor. It feels more . . . noble. When I audition for television or film, I usually wait with legions of actors in rooms that are always filled with a cacophony of ringing phones, ka-chunking copiers, whirring fax machines, and agitated assistants, while we vainly try to concentrate and prepare. There is always a sense that we are incredibly unimportant to the whole process; a necessary, but ultimately disposable, evil. There are notable exceptions (like when I auditioned for CSI) but more often than not, when we finally enter the room to do our thing, they don’t even know we’re there.
The few times I’ve been fortunate enough to audition for theatre (in Los Angeles and in New York) there’s an entirely different energy: it’s calm, it’s quiet, there are never more than four or five actors preparing their materials. There’s a sense of reverence for the craft, for the art. I realize this sounds incredibly pretentious, but it’s true. The overwhelming feeling I got today, which is the same I’ve felt whenever I’ve auditioned for theatre is This Matters.
As I sat there this morning and listened to the piano, I tried to read over my lines, but The Writer shoved The Actor out of the way, and did his best to suck in every last detail. I’ve realized that when these conflicts come up, I should just get out of the way and let them duke it out. If The Actor is ready, The Writer can do his thing. If The Actor needs more work, The Writer usually sits quietly and waits his turn.

After a few minutes, the door opened, and an actor walked out. He looked spent, but happy, like he’d left it all on the floor in there.
“Wil?” The casting director said.
“That’s me,” I said, as I picked up my sides.
She introduced herself, and walked me into the room. It was a long rectangular space, with a bare wooden floor and a small table at one end near the door. A few metal chairs lined up against the long wall to my left. The room was huge, but it felt more welcoming and more comfortable than many of the “intimate” television offices I’ve sat in recently.
I looked around, and realized that I’d read in this exact room about a decade ago, for a play at the Taper. I forget the title, but it was a great bit of work, and I was totally not up to the task. I didn’t deserve the opportunity; I got the audition because I was A Famous Guy, and I did as poorly as you’d expect.
That memory flashed through my mind as I was introduced to a bunch of people, and it wasn’t until I got to the director that I was sort of back in my body. I shook his hand, and — holy shit — I connected to him immediately. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to over-think it, but there was some visceral connection, like I’d known him for a thousand years.
“This is going to be awesome,” I thought.
“Do you have any questions?” He said. Even if I do have questions, I never ask them. In a casting session, they want to know that you are completely prepared, you totally grok the character and the material, and asking questions usually indicates that you don’t, or you’re really nervous. Unless the material is really unclear, and I absolutely need to know something, I always decline the opportunity.
Fortunately, today, I really didn’t have any questions, so I just said, “I have a take on this character. I’d like to show him to you, and when I’m done, we can see where we are. Is that cool?”
He smiled warmly. “That’s fine, Wil.”
“I think I’m going to sit for this scene, is that okay?”
“Of course. But feel free to walk around if you are inclined.”
I picked up one of the metal chairs, and carried it to the middle of the room. Two actors sat opposite me in metal chairs of their own. They smiled at me as I sat down and picked up my sides.
I did the scene. I wasn’t 100% off-book, but I was connected to the material and the character. I thought I knew what the scene was about, and why this guy was saying the things he said, so I just . . . did that.
When I was done, the director said, “That was great, Wil.” He turned to the casting director and said, “Do we have any other scenes for Wil to read?”
“No, that’s it,” she said.
“We have a ton of scenes for [the character],” one of the other men at the table, who I think was a producer, said.
The three of them talked for a moment, and they found another scene, which I think is an audition scene for a different character. The director walked up to me and handed me the sides.
“He doesn’t talk very much in this scene,” he told me, “but I just want to see you do a little bit more.”
Outwardly, I smiled and thanked him. Inwardly, I had torn off my shirt, Brandi Chastain-style, and I was running laps around the room.
He gave me some background on the relationship, and told me what he thought the character was emotionally experiencing.
“Okay?” he said.
“Yeah, sure.” I nodded.
“Would you like a minute to look at that?” The casting director asked me.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said.
I walked back out into the waiting room, sat down on this big comfy couch, and read the scene.
Wow.
See, the material is so amazing, it’s so clear and so beautifully crafted, and the direction I got was so clear, so specific and precise . . . all I had to do was open my mouth and hope that I didn’t get in the way of the words.
While I read the scene, two older actors stopped in near the couch where I was sitting. The man wore a tweedy jacket, the woman a big, breezy dress. They both held scripts under their arms and talked enthusiastically about a workshop they were doing. This matters.
I went back into the room.
“Are you ready?” The director asked me. He said it in such a friendly way, so reassuring and so kind . . . I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it feels (and how rare it is) for a director to make me feel like he really wants me to do well. In fact, is looking forward to it.
“Well,” I shrugged, “We’ll see!”

We laughed as I walked back into the room, and stood next to this metal chair that I’d sat on for my first scene.
I read the second scene. Considering that I’d had about six minutes with the material, and The Actor was fighting with The Writer the whole time I was trying to prepare, I felt that I did quite well. I felt connected to the material. I felt like I belonged in this room.
When I finished, the director said, softly, “That was beautiful, Wil. Thank you for coming in.”
“Thank you,” I said. I handed the sides back to the casting director, and let the door close behind me when I left.
The Actor looked at The Writer. “Did you get that?” He said.
The Writer nodded. “I got all of that,” he said. “Nice watching you work.”
“The feeling is mutual,” The Actor said.
They walked across the parking lot and got into the car.