Your story is a river
Tips, tricks, inspiration, and encouragement for storytellers of all stripes
Greetings from St. Cloud, Minnesota—
I’m way up north with my incredible LAST OUT team. We’ve loaded in, written light cues, set levels on sound cues, walked through spacing rehearsal, and rocked a dress rehearsal.
I’m writing this during our break between dress and first paid performance tonight (Thursday). Full house, baby. Oh yeah.
This venue—Pioneer Place on Fifth—is a gem. Quirky and funky, with a veranda and old-school, polished wood bars and a vintage jukebox and plush red velvet seats and an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in the basement.
And it’s primarily a concert venue.
Hold that in mind…
I didn’t know this about St. Cloud till I got here, but the Mississippi River runs right through it. I lived in St. Louis for several years, which also perches on the mighty Mississippi. It’s much narrower up here, though. My morning run included a bridge that goes over, and a trail that goes along.
I remember learning way back in grade or middle school that the Mississippi River is so narrow at its origin point that you can literally straddle it.
This massive river that drains 33 states and has a watershed that covers half the continental U.S. starts out as a mere trickle burbling out of Lake Itasca, further north into Minnesota. And 2348 miles later, after grabbing some jambalaya and catching some jazz in New Orleans, it empties into the Gulf of Mexico.
Here’s a thought I had as I ran over the river… what exactly IS the river? The water itself? But it’s always in motion. A river is not a static thing. The water is transient, and yet it’s always a river.
So is a river the scooped out portions of earth that funnel that ever-changing water?
Or is a river the current itself? The energy?
I don’t have a great answer, but the fun comparison is this: just like a river is always moving, always ebbing and flowing, growing from a trickle to a massive instrument of nature and commerce, so too your story can—and must—evolve.
Your story is not a static thing.
Remember I said that Pioneer Place is a venue built for concerts?
The first thing I noticed as we loaded in was the utter lack of wing space. Also, there was only one true entrance to the stage, and no way for actors to get from one side to the other unseen.
Bands don’t need such things. They work the stage, sure, but they don’t need to enter, exit, hide props in the wings, scamper from left to right behind the back wall. They enter, they play, they do an encore, they hit the bar.
But our play includes staging that requires entrances, exits, hidden props, and back wall scampering. So, what to do when the venue cannot provide such things?
You be a river. You evolve your play.
Within a few minutes, we had adjusted our staging. For these performances, the actors will simply sit to either side when they are “offstage.” I won’t have them lit, but they’ll still be visible to the audience. OK. No problem. The play is set in a sort of purgatory anyway, and the actors transform into various characters, so why be precious? Why not let the audience in on the metaphorical magic? Why not embrace flexibility, agility, adaptability, theatricality?
Then I started working with the in-house lighting guy, a hilarious and crusty vet named Scooter. He sports an epic mustache and personally owns dozens of lighting instruments.
The first thing he said to me when we met? “God I hate theatre.”
Alrighty then!
Scooter is expert in concert lighting—been doing it 40 years—and he has this venue set up for concerts.
Fun fact—concert lighting and theatrical lighting are two very different artistic expressions. While theatre cues want to be precisely painted, planned, timed, and called, concert lighting has an element of improvisation built in. Scooter works from two light boards—one that can be programmed, the other just a bunch of sliders that control certain instruments so he can paint the musicians in real time, react to their inspired wanderings around the stage.
Within five minutes of talking with Scooter, I knew I’d have to adapt. Learn his language as quickly as possible. Grasp a working understanding of what sliders brought up what lights.
Be a river. No time to be precious. What is essential to tell the story, and how can I translate those essentials into this light plot and these boards?
I gave the actors a heads-up. “So it’s going to feel different. This will literally feel like a concert version of our play. The lights won’t be structured and precisely the same show by show. It’ll feel like the lights are dancing with you a bit. But trust me, you’ll look gorgeous.”
And sure enough. Whereas in a theatre version of our play the lighting is subliminal, not calling attention to itself, this concert version doesn’t hide. The audience will see the lights move. Sorta like they’ll see the actors sitting in plain sight.
But that’s OK. Because the play isn’t changing. It’s evolving. It’s adapting to the venue.
It’s flowing like a river, baby.
The longer I work in this storytelling biz, the less precious I get about how any story is “supposed” to be told. Once you internalize the truth that any story is ever and always for the audience, you’ll realize the “trappings” can be traps.
Each time you tell your story, the venue and the audience will guide you to the most authentic version for that time and space.
You just have to give yourself over to the current.
100 Plays
Don’t forget to check out the most recent episode of 100 PLAYS!
In this episode, I talk about the power of practice, the ease of transformation, and the magic of baseball caps.
You can listen on the Substack App, and all episodes are also available on Apple or Spotify.
Or, if you want to put a face with a voice, the video version is available on YouTube.
The Page&Stage Podcast
The next episode of the PAGE&STAGE PODCAST will land in your inboxes on Monday.
Will Luera and Maria Schaedler-Luera join me to discuss their new roles as co-executive producers of Lifeline Productions and their deeply personal project, ENTANGLED. They explore how improvisation and theater support mental health, the power of vulnerability in storytelling, and the balance of family, creativity, and leadership. From the origins of ENTANGLED to advice for aspiring artists, this episode offers an inspiring look at how art, connection, and courage intertwine on and off the stage.
You can listen on the Substack App, Apple, or Spotify.
And the video version will be available over on YouTube.
ENTANGLED
Speaking of ENTANGLED, it’s time to get your tickets!
The show runs May 15-25 at the Cook Theatre on the campus of Asolo Conservatory in Sarasota.
Created and performed by acclaimed improviser and storyteller Will Luera, this electrifying production is equal parts hilarious and heartfelt. Blurring the lines between personal narrative, and theatrical innovation, ENTANGLED takes audiences on a ride through identity, self-doubt, and the moments that define us.
Sidenote—I’ve been honored to be a part of this show as a dramaturg and storycoach. I’ve watched Will start the process of writing and starring in this show all eager and bright-eyed, and then held his hand when he suddenly realized just what the heck he had gotten himself into! Very much like the process of CLOWNS LIKE ME—and very much like a river flowing!—Will has dug deep and landed in a place of inspiring vulnerability. I’m impressed by and proud of him, big time.
Click on the purple button and grab yourself some tix!
Thanks as always for reading, and have a great weekend!
Jason “em aye ess ess aye ess ess aye pee pee aye” Cannon