Strangers got the honest version first. It took someone who knew me to ask for it.
In March I stood in a small room in Adelaide and told people I’d never met some of the truest things I know about myself.
It was a Fringe season, a long way from home. Just me, some stories, and whoever had bought a ticket that night. Most of them would never see me again, and I’d never see them.
There’s a reason that can be easier than a chat at the kitchen table. A small Fringe theatre has an agreed start and finish time, and an understanding of what the show might involve. Nobody has to work out what to say afterwards, or carry it home and wonder what it changes between us.
Strangers arrive without any background knowledge. They don’t know the earlier versions of me, the bad weeks, the good ones, the things I’ve been challenged by, or the promises made with good intent that didn’t hold. They meet whoever walks onto the stage, and they take it on those terms.
That can make honesty feel easier than it is.
The first version I wrote of this show was a bit too careful. I read it aloud to my director, who is also my partner, and her feedback was simple. Be more open, more honest. Say the things I was stepping around.
I trusted her and went back for another pass. The objective of the show stayed the same, but there was now much more of me in it, the open and candid me, and the show was better for it.
One Tuesday night in Adelaide, two people came to see it: a man called Bert and his elderly mother. That was the whole audience, plus my director.
When two people turn up to an hour-long show, there’s sometimes a decision to make about whether to go ahead. I always go ahead, and that night I did the show. They’d chosen to come, bought tickets, and given up their evening, and that choice deserved honouring.
They were quiet but generous the whole way through. Afterwards Bert thanked me for going ahead. Years earlier, he told me, he’d cancelled a show of his own when only four people came.
Then he went home and wrote a review on the Adelaide Fringe website:
“Hidden gem. If you’re looking for heartfelt, gentle, reflective storytelling with a message of hope and perseverance, this is it.” Five stars.
It meant a lot, and it still does. Bert had no reason to be kind. He and his mother sat in a nearly empty room for an hour, and he chose to make the time to tell others about it afterwards.
As it turned out, strangers got the honest version first go, and it took someone who knew me to ask me to make sure the audience did. I had that order back to front.
I’d thought the exposed part was the stage: the lights, the people, nowhere to go. The harder part was the read-through. One person who knew my history, and what I’ve been challenged by, telling me I was holding back, and me hearing it, changed the nature of the show to the better version it now was.
In two weeks I’ll do it again, this time in Melbourne. My own city. The room will still be mostly strangers, and they’ll get the honest version, the one I was nudged into.
What’s different is that some of the people in that room might know me, and know some of what sits behind the stories. The stories will be the same ones, but I’m less sure of the reaction of these audiences. And that’s ok, I’m comfortable finding out anew each night.
Three things to try.
1. Notice who gets the honest version
Think of something true we’ve said easily to someone outside our lives, like a colleague, a stranger, or a person online. Then ask whether the same thing has been said to anyone inside them.
2. Ask for the feedback note
Hand an early version of something to someone who knows us. It might be a draft, a plan, or a hard conversation we’ve rehearsed. Ask what we’re stepping around.
3. Take that feedback all the way
When someone close tells us we’re holding back, try acting on it before arguing with it.
See the show this post is about
If you’ve read this far, come and be a stranger for an hour. Or come as someone who already knows a bit of the story.
Joely Poley, Puddin’ & Pie | 5 to 11 October, 7.45pm | The Motley WhereHaus
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