“I hate rollercoasters,” I said.
The director looked at me intently and asked, “How do you ride a rollercoaster?”
I crouched low in my seat, my arms stiff and my fists clenched around the imaginary restraints, my face scrunched with my eyes closed tightly.
“That’s terrorizing,” he observed.
“Yeah, it is,” I retorted.
“You have to let go. Scream. Open your eyes, and observe your surroundings.”
I couldn’t get past those tough, emotional scenes in rehearsal because I was approaching them the same way I approached riding a rollercoaster. I was holding on tight, afraid of what might happen if I let go.
The comedic, foolish characters I took on with ease and comfort; they fit like a glove. The characters who experienced loss, fear, torment—very vulnerable states—I was missing the connection with them.
As one monologue ended, the next crept up, with me dreading it like the car reaching the peak of the track and pausing briefly before flying down the steep hill. Me, tucked in my quiet ball of terror as everyone around me laughs, cries, screams.
“Can’t we just skip this one?”
Three particular monologues.
I need to find a rollercoaster…