English is not my first language. Which means—even after 20 years in the U.S.—some sounds still trip me up. I don’t have those magical “native ears” that instantly hear what’s off. So when I’m working on a new story or getting ready for a big show like “How To Die In Japan,” I bring in a secret weapon: Suzanne Brown, my dialect coach.
Suzanne has worked on A-list films for decades. Her entire world is made of sound. She can tell the difference between a male and female bird just by listening. She can make an actor who has never spoken Italian suddenly sound like they grew up arguing in an Italian kitchen. I’m not trying to sound American—I just want you to actually understand me, without my mispronunciations or odd intonation pulling you out of the story.
Because it’s a full hour-long show, I can’t go through every single line with her—but we zero in on the most important lines—the ones that carry the emotional weight. The ones that absolutely have to land. That’s where her magic really shows.
You’d think teaching American English pronunciation would be easy for Americans. Nope. First, you have to hear what’s wrong. Then you have to understand how someone else’s mouth and tongue move. Then you have to guide them to a version of the sound that feels natural for their body. Add in stress, rhythm, pauses, and context—and suddenly “to” becomes “tuh,” “duh,” or something in between. Watching Suzanne navigate this is like watching a master musician tune an instrument. It’s pure art.
That same level of care runs through the entire show.
My award-winning composer, Michael Mortilla, can improvise music on the spot—but he doesn’t wing it for my show. He reads the script, absorbs the emotional beats, then experiments endlessly: different instruments, different tempos, different textures. He tweaks and rescores until the sound feels exactly right.
And then there’s Anthony Phills, my brilliant artistic director. When he designed the logo for my solo show, he didn’t just pick a font and call it a day. He went through hundreds of options, made version after version, then adjusted everything so it would look good on tiny screens, big posters, and everything in between. If you’ve seen his recent article about designing the Don Norman Design Award trophy, you know how deep his process goes.
All of this invisible work—the listening, the testing, the refining—is what makes a solo show more interesting. It’s not just me on stage. It’s an entire team quietly shaping every moment so the story lands. So if you get a chance to work with professionals on your own project, appreciate their time, acknowledge the value they add, and enjoy the collaborative journey.
And guess what? I have a few more fun reveals coming… stay tuned.