There's a special kind of humiliation that only acting class can provide. It's like therapy, public speaking, and performance anxiety had a chaotic little baby - and then that baby grew up and personally targeted you.
So, here's what happened.
I had a little monologue. A good little monologue. One of those "this is going to get me cast in something, maybe even a limited series on HULU" monologue. I had rehearsed it all day. At home. In the mirror. At stoplights. Whispering it to myself in Trader Joe's like a method actor trying to decide between sourdough and gluten-free.
I had it down. I was ready to blow minds in that little black box studio space.
Then I got up in front of class, took a deep breath, stepped into character, and . . .
Immediate lobotomy.
The words were gone. Not just misplaced- evaporated. I stood there, blinking into the abyss, while my classmates (including that one girl who acts every scene like she's auditioning for a lead role in a Lifetime movie called Cheated, Chained, and Chased: The Persephone Story) watched me crash and burn like a $12 candle in a wind tunnel.
I tried to recover. I threw out some vague paraphrasing. I confidently invented new lines that had zero connection to the original text. I made strong- if highly questionable- choices. There may have been an aggressive whisper. There was definitely a dramatic pause that lasted so long someone coughed in sympathy.
But the point being, I didn't walk off. I didn't cry. I didn't dissolve into a dramatic heap and beg the earth to swallow me whole.
I finished. God help me, I finished that trainwreck like it was part of the process. Like it was supposed to happen.
Because here's the thing they don't tell you in the "follow your dreams" brochures: You will bomb. And you will survive. And sometimes, you learn more form one face-plant of a performance than from ten flawless ones.
Acting class is where we fall apart so we can figure out how to pull it together. It's not about being perfect- it's about being real. Raw. Present. And occasionally, a hot mess.
So yeah, I forgot my little monologue. But I remembered something more important:
I'm still showing up. Still taking it. Still booking it. Even if I have to improvise every damn word.
So, here's what I learned: even when your brain betrays you and the lines vanish like a magician's assistant, you keep going. You take it till you book it. Or fake it. Or improv your way through a weird Shakespear-meets-Kardashians moment on stage.
Because the only real failure is stopping.
Next time? I'll rehearse just as hard. But I'll also leave room for grace, recovery, and the occasional on-stage brain fart. Because let's be honest: forgetting your lines isn't the worst thing that can happen.
Forgetting to show up for yourself? The real tragedy.
If you've ever crashed and burned in front of an audience (real or imagined), I wanna hear about it. Drop your biggest "forgot my lines and failed gloriously" moment in the comments - misery loves company, and hey, we're building a whole troupe of glorious trainwrecks here.
And if this made you laugh, cringe, or nod in painful recognition, give it a follow. There's more where this came from. Weekly meltdowns, minor victories, and survival tips from the actor's front lines.
Weekly Amazon Rec:
This week's pick? Audition by Michael Shurtleff- it's like having a slightly intimidating yet brilliant acting coach living in your bag. I've underlined half the book and the other half is tear-stained and highlighted. "Every scene you will ever act beings in the middle, and it is up to you, the actor, to provide what comes before." -Michael Shurtleff, Audition.
In other words: your monologue might've gone off the rails, but if you build the truth before it, they'll still buy the ticket. (or at least not leaving during intermission.)
This book is brutally honest, wildly helpful, and filled with the kind of "tough love meets artistic gold" wisdom that ever actor needs-especially when your brain decides to throw your lines into the trash mid-performance.
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