I deserve a prize for resisting the urge to buy a new notebook.
I've had this funky composition version for a couple years. It's only one-third full of random notes. So I clipped those away and am starting a version of bullet journaling.

I'm not gonna get all crazed about it. But if I find that this is super helpful, I may share my method.

I've just come from an intense half year of recording audiobooks (a lot more to come on that). A couple other books are on their way. The work is extremely rewarding and enjoyable. But there are aspects that overwhelmed me.  Part of this journal's purpose is to organize that work along with the other little things that swirl in my head. There's a lot of administrative stuff to sort out. My hope is that I can dump those tasks in the journal and get them done.

Another element of the bullet journal is a storage for blogging ideas. In the coming weeks, I hope to add a lot more content to this part of my website. I want to share the good work of friends and colleagues. Perhaps give a peek into my process. You know, bloggy stuff.

HOW I MEMORIZE MY LINES

I need to speak my lines and repeat them over and over again.

For the past four years or so, I’ve made flashcards of all my lines. On the front, my cue is written, and on the back, my lines are there. It’s a great way to test myself. It’s also great to have written down my lines and to learn them in my own handwriting. I’m sure there are fascinating neurological bits at play with this process. But I won’t get into those because that’s not my realm of expertise.

I also need to be on my feet. I will often walk around in neighborhoods and parks, overtly holding my notecards. One time I was memorizing lines on a nice trail system when a passerby said: “good luck on your test.” I smiled and said thank you, careful not to shatter the illusion. Thank goodness they didn’t hear me say: “There is so hot a summer in my bosom that all my bowels crumble up to dust.”

WHAT I DO BEFORE (AND DURING) MEMORIZING LINES
It doesn’t HAVE to be grunt work. And often, it isn’t.

Just look at that last line again: “There is so hot a summer in my bosom that all my bowels crumble up to dust.”

If you just read that, isn’t the line wonderful? I mean, it’s macabre, but wonderfully so!

Read it aloud a couple times.

There is so hot a summer in my bosom that all my bowels crumble up to dust.

There is so hot a summer in my bosom that all my bowels crumble up to dust.

“Crumble up to dust” is so vivid. “Bowels” is equally funny and disgusting to me. And it’s the second great “B word” in the line (“bosom” being the first).

Even if you don’t know what’s going on, why John is saying what he’s saying, I venture that this line is marvelous. Just on its own. It took me no time at all to memorize. I didn’t have to drill this line over and over.

This is one of many lines that I inherently love in King John. And this happens to us all the time! I’d venture there’s a song or two, dear reader, that you know all of the words to. Or you can quote The Lion King or Monty Python and the Holy Grail because it hooked you at a young age, and you’ve seen it many times. You don’t have to work at it. A few days after Black Panther was released in movie theaters, a video was shared of a little boy acting out some pivotal dialogue from the movie. He had only seen it twice (if I recall correctly). This boy couldn’t have been more than five. He was quoting important scenes from the movie, verbatim. It took no work at all. And it was magical. There’s a meeting of some brilliant writers meeting eager fans at work here. And, thankfully, that often works for me when I’m memorizing. But this is not 24/7 ecstasy work.
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The tricky thing is I have 360 lines of Shakespeare in King John alone (1 line equals 1 line of verse: iambic pentameter). Billy Shakes wrote some great lines, but they’re not all created equal. So there are certain things I need to do before I do the grunt work of learning all of those lines by rote.

This is where the “what do you do to prepare?” question comes into play. Here are things I do before and during memorizing:

1. I read the play. Sometimes I’m familiar with it. Sometimes I’ve been in the play. And this summer, I’m playing a character I’ve played before. But, like in the case of King John, I need to read the play. And I should try to read it more than once. And then another time after that.
2. Research: reading about the playwright, reading about the context in which the play was written, reading reviews of past productions, reading critical theory, reading actors’ accounts, reading director’s notes. It may mean watching film adaptations (and now, more theatrical productions are available to watch). For King John I watched The Lion in Winter, the 1970s BBC version of King John, episodes of The Devil’s Crown (another 1970s BBC series tracing the reign of Henry II through John), and Disney’s Robin Hood. I’m listening to an audiobook of Marc Morris’s recent King John biography. I purchased the latest Arden edition of King John, which contains loads of background material and footnotes. In past productions of Shakespeare’s histories, I have avoided a lot of historical research because it is totally overwhelming. You can’t stop researching and a lot of the information can be dry and unactable. I can load up on facts, but if I don’t personalize them, it ends up being a waste of time. Plus, Shakespeare took a LOT of liberties with history. For King John, it’s been fun to know what actually happened versus what Shakespeare changes to make the drama happen. Ultimately my method is to inundate myself with information. This way, I’m not leaning too heavily on a single film or review or whatever.
3. Another kind of research I indulge in every now and then is acting/actor research. The Players of Shakespeare series is a collection of essays written by notable British actors. They write, frankly, about their process of working on a particular part. It’s like sharing a bourbon with them in their dressing room. There’s also Oregon Shakespeare Festival Actors Telling the Story--a series of edited interviews from a bunch of OSF actors sharing their secrets and thoughts about acting and memorizing. And they’re all different. I’ll likely give Declan Donnellan’s excellent The Actor and the Target another read soon. Or the classic Backwards and Forwards by David Ball. This step is more of a yearly check-in.
4. Before rehearsals begin, I’m eager for director’s notes. I love to know what the design of the play will be beforehand, if possible. Recently, I had a lovely chat with the King John director about where he was coming from, what questions he wanted to ask, what excites him. And I did the same. It was so much fun and illuminating. And he shared what kind of world the play would take place. This is so helpful to know ahead of time.
5. Sometimes I’ll do some period/production research of photographs and put them on a Pinterest board. Any image that connects me to events, characters, places, emotional states, etc. (whether they be period or not) is up for grabs. It’s a fun way to brainstorm. But I often find that once they’re pinned, I don’t engage with them any longer. I suspect this may be more of a stalling tactic.
6. Inactive/active daydreaming: I can’t quite explain this one, but it’s a little related to the pinning above. I’ll be living my life, visiting with friends or family, reading for fun, listening to music, whatever. And something I witness, overtly or not, attaches itself to the play I’m working on. I may remember it later or not.

ENGAGING WITH THE TEXT

1. Then I return to the text. I need to know what’s going on both on macro and micro levels. I need to know what every single line means. I need to know, for example, that when King John says “Thou hast made me giddy/ with all this ill news” he’s not being ironic. “Giddy” means “dizzy” in this context. I didn’t know that. And, before I looked up the word, I had a hard time with the elation that “giddy” means today. Now, the fun thing is that the audience may not know this when they hear me say the line. But I will do my darndest to think/feel dizzy when I say giddy.
2. I need to know WHY I’m saying the words I’m saying. This means having a careful study of all other words EXCEPT mine. This is easier said than done. In my rush to get off book, it can be easy to disregard anything that I haven’t highlighted. But it’s important to know that the highlighted lines wouldn’t be there without the lines surrounding them.
3. When I make my cue cards, it’s usually sufficient to include the last few words preceding my text. But I may have to jot down other operative phrases that trigger my response. The key to a response may be deep within a long speech.
4. Iambic pentameter and other jargon: Over the years I’ve learned many ins and outs of Shakespeare’s verse. There are lot of terms that give an actor clues to what “key” I’m playing in. What is accented, slurred, staccato, loud, soft, etc. I love playing with these “rules.” Many people (scholars, historians, actors, directors, teachers, etc.) have many thoughts about how Verse Should Be Spoken. I try to recognize these “rules” as tools if I get hung up on a line or phrase. I don’t hold myself to them, and my work of using verse is starting to become automatic.
5. English Class. I use, on a daily basis, elements of each English course I’ve ever taken. Personification? Check. Onomatopoeia? Check. Diagramming sentences? You betcha. All of those poetry/prose explications and dreaded five-paragraph essays have been instrumental in navigating Shakespeare and other playwrights. (Thank you, teachers!) The fun is transferring that book knowledge into acting juice--understanding WHY a character might be using any given rhetorical device. The possibilities are endless and that’s the creative fun of acting.

This is a lot of work. And I’m glossing over many details. But if I invest in steps I’ve mapped out, the memorizing has a solid foundation. And this is done before I walk into the rehearsal room. Once I start to play with the other actors, director, dramaturgs, designers, and stage management, a host of other connections fuse with the words I’ve memorized. The language becomes connected to the collective, collaborative imagination in the room. It becomes connected to actual events happening in the room: the swoop of a cape, the weight of a crown, the fit of my shoes, a wink, a laugh, a growl.

​Some actors don’t like to have their lines memorized before rehearsals start. They don’t like to be set in their ways before meeting the other actors (and no one’s getting paid for working before a contract begins--which is usually day one of rehearsal). I understand that. But for me, it’s more agonizing to act with a script in my hand. That ends up being my scene partner, and it’s such a crutch. I don’t determine how I’ll exactly say a line before it’s memorized. On the other hand, I don’t learn the lines completely neutrally either. It’s nearly impossible when I do all this work. It’s about being prepped enough to bring something to the table, but available enough to be flexible. I can’t do this on my own.

My lines are finally memorized for The Way of the World! This has been a long, tedious process. But I memorized the final bits this morning. This stack of cards has all my cues and lines for the show. It's great for quizzing myself. Come see this and the other shows for the Actors' Renaissance Season at the American Shakespeare Center.

(Photo: the battle at Corioli in Coriolanus at the American Shakespeare Center. Photo by Lindsey Walters.)


I'm incredibly busy with the Actors' Renaissance Season at the American Shakespeare Center. We're currently performing The Merchant of Venice, Coriolanus, and The School for Scandal. We're one week into rehearsal for Emma Whipday's brand-new play: Shakespeare's Sister. And we're weeks away from beginning rehearsals for The Fair Maid of the Exchange.

You can see the latest photos here.

In the meantime, my buddy Josh and I shot a little video series for each of the titles. Here's the first one.
(I don't know how to embed Facebook videos into this thing...)



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This is more for me than anything else. But here are a variety of quotes that struck me in a John Lahr's profile of Janet McTeer in The New Yorker.

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She wants to be known for the parts she plays, not for who she is. As she told the Daily Telegraph in 1996, “When I take off my stage makeup and walk out of the door, my obligation to the audience is over.” To me, she said, “There’s a reason I live in the Maine woods, where nobody knows what I do for a living. I think you can be better if someone who’s coming to see you perform has no idea who you really are.”

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“I was incredibly self-conscious about the way I looked.” The year she was fourteen, she grew seven inches and had to bandage her legs to ease the growing pains. “I was half an inch taller than the boy I liked. I remember I was doing my piano practice, and I started sobbing. My father couldn’t cope with it. He gave me a tot of whiskey and ginger until my mother came home.” But the moment was a kind of emotional watershed. “After that,” McTeer said, “I stood up tall, and I never slouched. It was a sort of act of defiance, really. And, when I went to college, I realized that my height was an incredible tool. I could really use my body in a way that I felt was theatrical: you can stoop, you can be big, you can be galumphing, you can be nineteen-thirties and elegant. You’re much more malleable.”

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McTeer sees acting as a form of jazz—a performance in which each player makes new music from a familiar tune. “I want to see live theatre,” she told me. “I want to not quite know where it’s going—so, when you see performers, you feel like they’re inventing it as they go along, rather than doing something that’s polished.” Once, she sat in the audience at what she describes as a “controlled, grownup, well-presented play.” Afterward, a man in front of her turned to his companion and said, “Wasn’t that marvellous! Gin and tonic?” she recalled. “I thought, I never want to be in that play, to do something easy that doesn’t challenge you. The idea of being in something competent—well, watch television.”

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Coleman [McTeer's husband, on the night he first saw her] wrote in his journal, “She slips through air like a harbor seal in an icy green sea.”

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In “The Dressing Room,” a poem about this first encounter with the inner workings of McTeer’s craft, Coleman bears witness to her shape-shifting from ordinary citizen to extraordinary performer:
She throws her head
back and guzzles a Diet Coke, turns up the
volume on her stereo and curses, howls
sways her weight from one foot to the other
the room getting smaller and smaller
and the air suffocating

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“Janet feels a connection between fearlessness and great work,” Rourke said. “In the rehearsal room, in performance, she drives herself to the edge of what frightens her, and jumps off.” Working at that level of intensity requires reserves of energy, especially in a play like “Les Liaisons Dangereuses,” which places enormous demands on the actors’ verbal dexterity and mental focus; sometimes McTeer pushes herself too far. “I hate being tired for shows,” she told me. “I’m not one of life’s great sleepers. I work quite hard at sleeping.” She believes, she added, that “you have to be fitter than the play you’re doing.”

McTeer follows a vigilant regimen. For a very physical show, like “The Taming of the Shrew,” she spends the afternoon before an evening performance at home. At three o’clock, she has a salad and perhaps does some reading. At four o’clock, using “my Paul McKenna hypnosis tape,” she said, she naps for half an hour, then for another half hour lifts weights and takes a hard spin on an exercise bike. After a shower, “I’d hum, get my voice started warming up, and I’d bike to work,” she said. While playing Petruchio, she never looked in the mirror, but for Merteuil, she said, she’d “maybe put on a face mask, check my nails, because I want her to have nice nails, nice moisturizer.” She explained, “You’re as vain as your character.” She also always listens to music before a show: baroque for Merteuil; for Petruchio, “anything loud.”
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McTeer’s characters may change and her routine may vary, but one part of her ritual stays the same. Before every performance, especially when she’s tired, on matinée days, “just for a second,” she peeks out at the audience, “to see people’s eyes.” She tells herself, “That person wants to be moved, that person wants to be excited, that person is here to see a bit of magic. All right, I can do this.”



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The rake is built.

I think it looks so cool, and it's not even finished.

We were able to rehearse on the stage yesterday.

I think we're about 2/3 done with blocking.

Bit by bit, putting it together.