Solo shows can be a lonely journey.
Once the script is “done,” a new phase begins: doubt.
Is this good enough?
Is this funny enough?
Can this hold an audience’s attention for a full hour?
That’s usually when everything starts to feel… boring. Not objectively boring—just to you. And when that happens, the instinct kicks in: cut. Cut words. Cut sentences. Cut entire paragraphs. Cutting feels productive. Cutting feels like control.
That was me the other day. I cut and cut and cut—and honestly, it felt great. Then rehearsal happened.
My director, Jane Morris, did what I now think of as a “health check.” I proposed my cuts. She rejected almost all of them.
“No, we need that information.”
“You can remove it, but I actually enjoyed that part.”
Out of everything I wanted to eliminate, there was exactly one sentence she agreed could go.
Relief came first. Okay—this wasn’t a complete mess. The writing wasn’t wildly off track. But the real problem remained. The piece still felt slow to me. And when a performer isn’t fully on board, that slowness turns into something worse: quiet suffering. If it feels like torture on stage, it will be torture in the seats.
So the next conversation was with my Creative Dramaturg & Performance Advisor, Marlene Nichols.
Instead of cutting text, she dissected the problem. Where the energy dipped. Where intention blurred. Where delivery—not content—was doing the damage. We worked moment by moment, beat by beat. By the end of the session, something unexpected happened.
The “boring” section became one of the most fun parts of the show.
Same words. Different life.
Antonio Sacre once told me that having a director for a solo show is essential—and that he wouldn’t even watch a solo show without one. I agree. And for me, taking the show to the next level meant working with a creative dramaturg. If that’s not available, a trusted, experienced performer with honest instincts can make a huge difference.
Solo work may start alone—but it doesn’t have to stay that way.
If you’re curious to see how all of this work comes together—the cutting, the resisting, the trusting, the collaboration—I’d love for you to see the final product. How To Die In Japan will be on Sunday, February 1, 2026 at 2 PM at the Fanatic Salon Theater. It’s the result of many conversations, many revisions, and a lot of generous eyes and hearts along the way. I’d be honored to share it with you.
And today I learned a new word: “Dramaturg”. Break a leg in February!
Thank you, Gary! I don’t think that I can pronounce the word ever…(too many Rs!)