On Auditioning for Rent | Part 1

Singing for Strangers Feels a Bit Like Writing (Almost...)

Last Friday, I went on an audition for the local, community theater production of Rent.

Photo by Matthias Wagner on Unsplash

This news is nearly as shocking to the people who know me as it is to the people who don’t.

It was the first time I’d auditioned for something in about 20 years. (I had four lines in a short, comedic play in college.) 

It was the first time I’d sang solo, in earnest, in front of a stranger in about 22 years, karaoke notwithstanding. (In high school, I was in the chorus of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I also played Ursula in Bye, Bye, Birdie, but only by default; the original Ursula dropped out.) 

Just why the heck I did this will be covered in the second essay of this three-part excavation. 

But, this is Part One. And Part One is about all of the parallels to the writing process that I observed throughout my experience. 

If you write, see if you see yourself anywhere in here…

First, the imposter syndrome kicked in. Yes, I had made the decision to audition months ago, when things seemed abstract. As the date approached, reality sunk in.

What am I even doing? Why did I sign up to do this? Who do I think I am? People are going to think I think I’m so great. It’s not like I believe I’m the next Broadway superstar or anything. I just want to try this. I just wanna have fun. Wouldn’t this be cool? But people are going to think I’m taking myself so seriously with this writing… er, I mean… theater thing. I’m too freaking awful. Everyone else will have more experience than me. Why bother?

I can’t do this.

(Writers, would-be writers and fellow writing imposters, are you starting to see it?)

I quickly realized that if I didn’t have some sort of investment in this, I would never go through with it. I scheduled a meeting with a voice coach three days before the audition. I also told my family I was doing this, with the intention of teaching my son a valuable life lesson about expanding beyond your comfort zone. I needed these things as accountability.

(Writers who find a writing community or buddy know this can often help with follow through.)

As Tuesday night approached, I became overwhelmed. I considered cancelling the appointment and blowing off the audition completely. I had a fantasy about heading off, sitting in my car for two hours during the timeframe of the audition, and then driving home, just so I wouldn’t mess up my grand plan to teach my son a lesson about trying.

I was in too deep. A friend reminded me that I could go to the coaching session and still skip out on the audition. One step at a time. I decided to go ahead and meet with the vocal coach.

(Sometimes we get overwhelmed by the whole of a project—writing a book, or completing a long essay, for example—so we never even start. Logic tells us that we can’t get to that big, beautiful destination unless we move forward, but our inner critic—typically in an effort to protect us—prevents us from even taking one step. It’s our job to take the step anyway.)

Guess what? The session went really well. The coach complimented me. She said things she didn’t have to say just be nice. She made me think I wasn’t going to make a fool out of myself. She starting correcting a note. She took me seriously. Like, actually not laughing me off the Zoom call.

Ruh-roh. My ego became intrigued.

We settled on “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” as my song, the second of the two options I brought her. “This is giving me ‘Maureen’ vibes,” she said, naming a main character I wouldn’t have even let myself dream of considering putting down on my audition sheet. I was simply going for the ensemble.

But, now, my wheels started turning. Riding high on the call with her, I was BACK, baby!

A little confidence began to creep in. Perhaps it was required, because in order to get the chutzpah to actually get on that stage, I suppose I had to believe in some ways what I was doing was somewhat good, decent enough, worth doing in front of a bunch of strangers. I got to a place where I started thinking to myself, “I think I’m moderately good and I, maybe, could actually get a part.” 

(Writers… I’ll compare this to the moment where you actually do pick up the pen or open up the laptop, blank Google doc staring back at you, pondering your next move. Here’s where you start opening yourself up just a bit to the possibility of what might be if you actually showed up for your writing.)

Sometimes, a small bit of confidence evolves into overconfidence. For me, with Rent, this is what had to happen in order for me to move through my feelings of inadequacy and imposter syndrome. As I started rehearsing my song, making up my little moves and visualizing myself on stage, I was buoyed by my coach’s support and the cheerleading of a few close friends and family.

How can I do this? turned into How can I not do this?

(Writer’s, here we go on a journey. Ugh, the utter audacity to put my words on this piece of paper; my thoughts, my ideas, my emotions. Who the hell cares? But, wait, I actually do think I have something to say. I want to say this. I need to get this out. Am I the only person who is willing to say it this way? Am I the only person who is able to tell this story this way? Is this story inside of me for a reason and I’m supposed to get it out? OMG. Was I born to tell this story?)

Or, sometimes, it goes a little bit differently. Opening up to a bit of confidence might be where the conversations with our inner critic come in. This can be where we completely shut down. Or, it can also be where we move through the imposter syndrome and do the thing regardless of all of the red flags waving in our brain. Maybe we move forward even if we don’t get that confidence, even if we don’t have someone telling us we’re wonderful, and even if we don’t know/believe/feel we’re great (or actually maybe aren’t “so great”) at something.

It’s the part of us that says, “but, I just want to do this anyway.”

A member of my writing community, Jinx M., recently shared this notion: “Even if it’s not good, is it worth doing? That’s something I ask myself when I am scared to do something big.”

I love the framing of this question.

This question might have gotten me up on that stage even if I hadn’t met with that voice coach.

It might even get me to hit “publish” on this very piece.

Writing, whether we share what we create or not, can be a very vulnerable experience. Sometimes our writing exposes us to others, and sometimes it exposes us to ourselves. It’s like standing on the edge of a stage and singing, expectantly looking out at the panel of folks and wondering, so…what did you think?

But, perhaps here the inquiry is less “what did you think?” and more “hey, check this thing out.”

It’s less, “is this thing on?” and more “you see me, right?”

Because when you see me, and I see you, I think we’re beginning to stumble upon each other’s humanity. 

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve gotten the sense that’s kinda the main point of this whole “human-ing” exercise, no?

To be continued…

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Curious what happened with the audition? More to come in Part Two.

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