Notes I Leave Myself When Someone Makes Me Laugh Mid-Scene

I keep a tiny notebook in my costume pocket, the kind with a ribbon bookmark and a pencil that never stays sharp. It is not for lines. It is for emergencies, the specific emergency of someone saying something so unexpectedly funny that my composure slides right off my shoulders like a shawl. After the scene, in the wings, I scribble what happened before it floats away.

One note, in rushed capitals, reads: HE TURNED THE SERIOUS SPEECH INTO A JOKE AND I FORGOT MY NEXT ENTRANCE. Underneath, in smaller handwriting, I added: worth it. I have underlined worth it twice, because the best laughs always cost me a beat of dignity, and I would pay again.

Another says only: do not look at him during the soup line. I wish I could tell you why. Let us say that some people have a way of waiting until I am mid-sentence, then raising one eyebrow just slightly, and the scene has to finish itself without me for a moment. I wrote that note as a rule. I have broken it every time.

My favorite page is the one where I wrote: laugh first, recover later. It is terrible stagecraft and wonderful life advice. A real laugh, the surprised kind that comes out through the nose, makes the whole story warmer. It tells the person across from me that they got through, that the polished girl has a crack in her varnish, and that she is glad of it.

I read those notes before I go on, the way another actress might touch a good luck charm. They remind me what I am really hoping for out there. If you want to be the reason I need a new page, I am on TheFriend, pencil ready, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

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