Nervous Is Good, Actually
Oh man, let's start here, because it's the thing everybody wants solved before we even walk in the door.
You are going to be nervous. Some of you are already nervous reading this, about a class that hasn't happened yet. I get emails like that every session — "I don't know if I can do this, I get so nervous" — and I always want to write back: good. That's the right amount of caring.
Here's my actual opinion on it, not a pep talk version: nervousness is not a problem you need to fix before class starts. It's not a leak in the boat. It means the thing matters to you. I would rather teach a room full of shaky, sweaty-palmed beginners than a room of people who already think they're good at this and are just waiting for their turn to prove it. The nervous ones are paying attention. The confident ones are coasting, and coasting is boring to watch.
So we're not going to spend this lesson on how to calm down. We're going to spend it on what to do with the nervous energy instead, because it's not going anywhere and it doesn't need to.
The switch everybody has
Every person has a subject that turns them into a louder, more animated, more confident version of themselves. You've seen it happen to other people. Maybe you've had it happen to you and didn't notice until later.
I'll tell on myself here. A while back I was at a trailhead up the canyon, just minding my business, and a stranger asked me about conditions on the Timp trail. Twenty minutes later I was still talking. Full detail, hand gestures, the whole thing, while my actual hiking group stood there waiting on me like I'd forgotten they existed. I hadn't planned to become That Person. It just happened, because I know that trail and I care about people not getting caught up there in the wrong shoes.
That's it. That's the whole secret to acting, honestly. You already have that switch. You've flipped it talking about your kid's baseball team, or sourdough starter, or why the new roundabout by the school is a menace. Acting is just finding that switch and flipping it on purpose, in front of people, about something you didn't necessarily choose yourself.
Nobody teaches you to be interesting about the Timp trail. You just are, because you stopped monitoring yourself. That's the state we're after in every scene you'll do this semester.
What to actually do with it, practically
Here's the homework version, something you can do this week without a script or a partner or even leaving your house.
Notice your own switch. Pay attention this week to when you talk too much, too fast, too enthusiastically, about something small. Don't judge it. Just notice it and remember what it felt like in your body — loose jaw, hands moving, forgetting to check if people are bored. That feeling is the goal. Not "confidence." That feeling.
Practice being watched a little, on purpose, at low stakes. Say something slightly more animated than usual to a cashier, or tell a story at dinner with a bit more color than you normally would. Nobody's grading you. You're just testing the water on being 10% louder than your default.
Let your nerves be visible instead of hidden. This is the one people fight me on. You do not need to look calm. You need to be present. A nervous actor who's actually listening and reacting beats a calm actor who's checked out, every time.
And a real caution here, not a dramatic one: don't try to talk yourself out of the nerves by overpreparing, memorizing every possible line of dialogue, rehearsing in the mirror until it's brittle. That backfires. You'll walk in so locked into a plan that the second something goes sideways — and something always goes sideways — you won't have anywhere to go. Loose beats locked.
The part where I remind you nobody's watching that closely
My first-ever play, I had exactly one line. I delivered it, with feeling, to the wrong actor. Wasn't even in the scene. I realized what I'd done the second I walked offstage and just about died backstage. Nobody in the audience noticed. Not one person. The show kept going, the play ended, people clapped.
That's not a story about how it doesn't matter what you do onstage. It's a story about scale. The mistake that feels enormous to you, standing there mid-sentence with your heart going, is invisible to almost everyone watching. They're not tracking your performance line by line. They're just watching a person do a brave, slightly ridiculous thing in front of a room, and mostly they're rooting for you.
So bring the nerves. Don't leave them at home trying to arrive "fixed." We'll use them.
Before next time: notice your own switch this week — the topic that makes you louder without trying — and just bring the memory of it with you. That's the whole assignment. 💛