Don’t Write Alone | Notes on Craft

Bringing Acting Technique to Exploratory Writing

When beginning a new written work, apply acting exercises to explore the intent, sensory experiences, and focus of your writing.

To begin a new piece of writing can sometimes feel like waking up in the Capulet crypt for the first time. After Friar Laurence has given her a distilled liquor to make her veins run cold, inviting the appearance of death, Juliet rouses, eager to be reunited with her Romeo. This moment of waking arrives with a thrilling hope, an anticipation. But there is also apprehension, a faint dread at the plan’s potential for failure.

I sit down to write, and I am Juliet in the tomb. The apothecary’s drugs are finishing their work and taking slow leave of my body.

“O comfortable friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?”

But Friar Laurence has fled, and I am alone. I must do something. I must act.

When I write, I often think of Romeo and Juliet. It is a story obsessed with light. Juliet is the sun who kills the envious moon. Her eyes are fair stars. Her attraction to Romeo is lightning. A grave is not a grave but a lantern because Juliet is there. She teaches the torches to burn bright.

Writing can be like waking in a darkened vault, trying to assess where I am and what needs to happen. I like to bring lessons from the stage to early writing work, a delightful rummaging around in the darkness, looking for a match. To begin, I look for things I can anchor myself to in the work, little bits of radiance to illuminate what is still hidden.

*

I am playing Juliet. I am alone in an acting studio, about to dive into act 5, scene 3, for the first time—waking in the tomb. There is no director here, only me and the character and our shared curiosities. For a time, I am alone with Juliet. How can I activate this lonely work?

I have rented this rehearsal studio for an hour, and for that hour, I will dedicate my explorations of this scene to my great-great-grandmother, Rose Fox. Yesterday, I dedicated the work to all past Juliets. Tomorrow, I will dedicate it to someone new.

In The Presence of the Actor, Joseph Chaikin wrote about dedicating performances in this way. “You choose a person with whom you are connected, as though an electric wire was running between you. . . . The scope of the dedication is limitless.” I try to incorporate this practice into my writing. The work instantly becomes bigger than me. It takes on an expansiveness and, I hope, a generosity. I invite unseen collaborators, honor them, bring them into the work with me, and ask them to act as hands to lift me should I need them.

Writing Exploration: Dedicate the Work

Choose any person. Say their name aloud. Dedicate your writing time to them using Joseph Chaikin’s words: “. . . for you, to you, in honor of you, I dedicate the next two hours. I may forget you as I am going through it, and I may consciously return to you; it may be nothing more than the gesture of saying ‘I’m doing it.’ I don’t know what my dedication to you will do, but I address you and share this time with you.”

*

Now, alone in the rehearsal studio, I could throw my bags in the corner, lie on the floor, start saying Juliet’s lines, and see what happens. But I suspect this wouldn’t produce very fruitful work. How can I fully inhabit Juliet’s dilemma if there are lingering preoccupations about the dental appointment I need to schedule, the text from Lauren I still need to reply to? I must begin with relaxation, creating conditions in the body and mind that will invite inspiration. The goal is to release tension and quiet distractions, making myself receptive to delight and discovery. Konstantin Stanislavski called this the creative mood.

Writing Exploration: Relax

In a comfortable position, sitting or lying down, take a moment to assess how you feel physically and emotionally. What points of distraction in the body and the mind do you have the ability to address before the work begins?

Close your eyes and take an inventory of the body, starting at the toes and slowly working your way up to the top of your head, addressing tension as you notice it.

As you move through this inventory, ask what gifts you can offer each part of the body. Hands, what do you need? What can I offer you? A quick massage of the fingers. A long, delicious stretch. Notice what happens to the body as you pay more attention to it.

In a room full of actors doing this relaxation work, you might hear all manner of sounds, long deep vowels filling the room. Some people find that if they attach a specific sound to a part of the body they want to relax, it helps to ease the tension. Make noise, if you feel compelled to. Work through the body in this way, noticing it, offering it gifts, releasing tension when necessary.

When you are done, close your eyes and spend five minutes engaging in some private storytelling. Simply tell yourself the story, from beginning to end, of the scene or chapter you’re about to embark on. Tell whatever you know of it, but also allow yourself to be surprised. Take note of images that arise, the shape the story takes.

Many actors begin every class, every rehearsal, every performance with a relaxation exercise. Beginning writing with a ritual like this can be a useful way to step into the work. It says to the body and the mind, This is where we start. It’s time now.

But I do not write alone in an acting studio. I write at a small desk tucked in the corner of a small bedroom in a small apartment that is also inhabited by two children, their father, and two cats. There is never quiet. I am almost never alone.

And so this work must be malleable. Sometimes I only have five minutes for relaxation work before I begin writing. But I do it whether I think I need it or not. It sets my internal processes running. I know the words will not magically appear fully expressed and alive on the page if I just sit down and hope for the best. I have to give myself the gift of creating conditions, to the best of my ability, that will encourage creative work.

I have to give myself the gift of creating conditions, to the best of my ability, that will encourage creative work.

*

Here I am on the cold floor of the rehearsal studio. It is vinyl and scuffed with marks from dancers and actors who did not remove their street shoes before entering. Here on my body is the soccer practice jersey I’ve had since high school and my favorite gray sweatpants. There is a dusty black curtain on a track covering a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall beside me. Above are fluorescent lights.

How do I begin creating the vaulted ceilings of the crypt? How can I begin to act as if I am surrounded by cold stone walls, the damp cool air of a subterranean chapel, the faint smell of incense? How can I conjure the darkness?

Well, I can begin by turning out the lights. (There, I have flicked the switch. It is dark now.) Next, I turn to my ongoing relationship with sense-memory work.

Sense memory is a tool used by actors to help create physical sensations around emotional events. It is often a long-term training involving awareness of the senses, engaging observations to bring a vividness to imaginary circumstances. The classic actor’s entry into sense-memory work includes a morning drink. The task is to pay close enough attention to the details of your cup of coffee that you could recreate the sensation of steam rising even when the liquid is absent, that you know deeply the feel of the porcelain against your palm even when the mug is not there. It is an ongoing work of attention, observing closely the sensory experiences of life.

Writing Exploration: Cultivate Your Sense Memory

You know the scene you are to begin work on. You’ve relaxed. You’ve told yourself the story. Now, set a timer for five minutes, and make a list focused on the sensory elements of the scene. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell? What do you taste? What can you touch and how does it feel? Be as specific as possible.

If you’re having trouble imagining the world of the scene, consider turning to a memory of your own that holds a similar emotional charge. List every sensory detail you can recall.

Now look at your list. What feels especially potent? Highlight or circle these. If nothing compels you, reenter the landscape of the story, set the timer, and write again. Do this until you have a whole list of rich sensory details that excite you, there for you to incorporate into the writing as you see fit.

*

I lift my body from the floor with great effort and pretend to discover my young husband dead beside me. (Romeo is presently being played by a rolled yoga mat stuffed inside my winter coat.) I discover the empty poison bottle.

“O churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips.”

Eventually, I lift a dagger—a prop blade in a black sheath that has been dulled by a man who does these things for a living—but I cannot decide how I should handle it, or what my relationship to the dagger should be, how I should behave.

Making art is making choices. I always want to make specific and vibrant choices that light me up, ones that change the feeling in the room. I place the blade back onto my coat-husband and fetch a piece of paper from my backpack, the notes I made when I read through the play for the first time.

“Things happen so quickly,” the paper says. “The image of a fever surfaces. Delirium, ecstasy, unrest. A fever dream.” This is an image I can work with. I go back and place myself in the crypt. I lift the dagger, this time with a fever.

Writing Exploration: Decide Where the Light Goes

There are many directions a story can take. What specific aspects of your idea are most compelling to you? At the start of a writing project—a scene, a story, a poem, an essay, a book—make a list of what attracts you to the work.

This list is a fertile place to begin explorations, and it can help guide the choice-making that will follow. Your curiosities are a touchstone to return to when the work becomes difficult. In your interests, in your work, give yourself permission to change the temperature of the room.

Keep an ongoing journal, noting things that compel you. Be observant of your passions. The specificities of your personal and emotional terrain are gold for your work as a writer. You can always return to them when you need a place to begin. Write down words that have heat for you, images that haunt you. Keep these at the ready.

Knowing what compels you, set a timer for ten minutes and write, making a list called Things That Could Happen in This Scene.

*

My yoga-mat-coat-husband no longer provokes any feeling in me. I cannot fake surprise or agony at the discovery that his lips are still warm. I am unrolling the yoga mat and throwing myself upon it like an angry little starfish, groaning and contemplating taking a nap before I catch the train home.

In scene-study classes, there often comes a time when an actor will drop character, break the fourth wall, throw her hands in the air, and moan, “It’s not working!” It is always precisely at that moment that the class sees that she is on the verge of discovery. “Keep going!” Everyone shouts this excitedly. But the actor will say, “I don’t get it.” Or, “I’m so frustrated.”

I had a professor in drama school who was famous for countering actors’ resistance by saying, “Well, why might your character feel that way?”

“Well, why might your character feel that way?”

Writing Exploration: Work with Resistance

If in the early pages of a draft you feel confused or blocked or tired, instead of abandoning the work altogether, try bringing that energy to the writing. Why might your character feel confused? Why might your character be distracted? Why might your character rather be doing anything in the world but this? Frustration often arises when we are knocking up against big truths. The results of this writing might not ultimately be the right choices for the story, but they will yield discovery—about the story, and about yourself.

My rehearsal time today is almost through. Soon, a group of actors devising a new play will peer into the small window and shoot me looks, telling me the room is no longer mine.

But today’s exercises have brought me to a place of possibility. Whether in rehearsal or with a pen in my hand, the early stages of exploration are about reaching for points of astonishment, bits of brilliance to cling to as I flesh out the world.

Aloud, I invite Juliet to leave. I invite myself to return fully to the room. Shaking out my husband, I slip my arms into the sleeves—it is my gray coat once again. With my hand on the door, I take a breath and leave the studio. The work will be waiting for me tomorrow.