Stories

Tuesday night we drove back from Mammoth in the dark. The sun set, the road was two lanes and narrow. There were no lights, except cars shooting toward you in the opposite direction. The great dark hulk of the Sierras lay to the right like a sleeping monster. Driving took concentration, and we still had a long way to go.

So Jonathan came up with a game. The boys would come up with the elements, and we would tell the stories. Jonathan asked questions: Funny, funny-scary, or scary? (funny-scary, said Benji). Real or unreal (unreal, said Theo). Fable or fairy tale or science fiction? (fable, said I).

Then you are on. You have to think on your feet and keep weaving your tale, judging your audience reaction by giggles, complaints, and sighs of pleasure and satisfaction. When the story goes off track the audience chimes in to complain. (That is not a fable! or That is not very funny!) Because the goal is to pass the time, you also have to keep the story going as long as possible, so the miles fly by, and hopefully, boys will be lulled to sleep. Jonathan's was great, about a strange visitor, who makes all sorts of wonderful things happen, and solves all the family's problems. But in the end he was not real. The moral: You cannot wait for a stranger to solve all your problems. You have to figure it out yourself."

None of us saw that coming. We were disappointed. The imagination part of the story was very alluring.

Then it was my turn. I got three words: Weird (Theo), Ocean (Benji) and cat (Jonathan). I got to suck in my breath, imagine a setting, then dive in. It is like a strange sort of mental exercise--perhaps the way improv goes if you are really good. I started, and Theo yelled out (you are copying a book, and I know which one!). Harsh audience!

But I wove my tale, about a blue cat who takes to the sea, and eventually saves his mother. There is a lot more to the story, and I will not bore you with it here.

But in the end, I got the most gratifying reward.

I finished, and Benji let out a long, perfect, contented sigh.

"That was good," he said.

Oh, it was the perfect gift for a night-time storyteller. I had cast the spell and he was smitten.

"Did you like Blue?" I asked. (Blue was the name of the sea kitten).

"I want to be Blue," he said.

Oh, be still my beating heart.

No amount of money could compensate me for that perfect appreciation.

My Bad Post-Mortem

I did it. I survived my show at Bang.

It was terrifying, exhilarating, and WOW did it stir up a lot of weird issues for me.

I arrived clutching my papers in my hand--unsure if I would read or drop the papers and talk. I had scrawled BREATHE across the top, just as my actor/writer friend Lee had advised, and worked out really really hard, too, so I would have no energy leftover to be nervous.

But there is always more energy to be nervous--secret reserves hidden away. I walked away and immediately I was terrified. The other performers/readers were world class improv people who had trained at Second City, or had their own show at Bang on other nights, or were just hilarious as soon as you saw them--you know the types, riveting, hilarious faces with deep voices and big noses. The kind of people you know are going to make you laugh before they open their mouth, and then they do, and every single thing that comes out, even in conversation, is the funniest thing you have heard in a year.

I drank a coke, kept breathing, and madly texted Jonathan for words of comfort.

Aliza (who directed the show) walked out in a super cool saunter to the chords of "Bad to the Bone."

I should add that my anxiety levels were so high in the afternoon that I thought I might faint or destroy my marriage.

Performing, and I guess, telling a true story that is slightly shameful, on stage brought up huge issues for me. It was one of the most powerful therapeutic experiences I have done. Telling those stories on stage in that way got right to the core of what is holding me up in life.

By an hour before the show Jonathan was looking deep in my eyes and saying, "THIS is why you cannot write your novel. You feel too guilty to tell your story. You are still scared. This is really really important."

And it was.

I came out and there was a row of my wonderful friends--all actors at one time or another, mostly writers, and to a person thoughtful, sensitive, creative and wise. I saw their faces and I knew I would be OK.

When people laughed I was so thrown I didn't know what to do.

But I did it. And my fellow performers blew my mind with their honesty, hilarity and talent.

The show packed a punch in terms of emotional power. Truth-telling is always compelling.

We will see if I got addicted.