I need to start writing all the time again. The problem is, I used to actually be kind of good at this blogging thing — my stuff was at least moderately amusing and/or interesting on a regular basis. But my LiveJournal heyday has long since passed, and for the past year or so I’ve been pretty much incapable of writing anything worthwhile. And in my wacky perfectionist brain, if what I’m putting out there isn’t The Greatest Thing in the History of All Things, then it isn’t worth putting out there at all.
I’m going to attempt to push that habit aside for the next few weeks. You can’t improve without practice, and practice almost always includes failure and imperfection. Get over it, Crazy Brain.
So. MTC. Second time around. Very, very different group. Like, oceans apart in just about every respect. At only sixteen people — four guys and twelve gals — we’re slightly more than half the size of last year’s pack, and the age level skews much more toward twenties and older, as opposed to the teen-stravaganza that was last summer. Nobody I’d term a “dancer”; one or two folks who are trained and reasonably skilled in the area, but for the most part it’s a group of singers who may or may not also be able to move. I ended up placed in the higher levels of both tap and jazz, which should tell you something. Great set of diverse, interesting voices, though.
I knew it was going to be a little hard going in*, because last year’s group was so phenomenal; full of wonderful people and astonishing talent, and all with such a thirst. Insatiable thirst for more more more, more things to learn, more boundaries to push, more fun to have. It was exhilarating. Heck, it was the best summer I’ve ever had. I don’t doubt that this summer will be great, too; it’ll just be great in a different way. Which is as it should be.
What else, what else? First day tidbits. Ever since I found out I’d be doing the program a second time, I’ve been fretting about the comedy improv master class. As a rule, I am terrible at improv. It terrifies me, and frustrates me; I try so hard to find the funny that I end up missing the mark altogether. Last summer, however, by the grace of some obviously bored deity, I was phenomenal in the improv class. Hit after hit after hit. Like, it was repeatedly remarked upon. And while my success was no small source of pride to me that day (and a good few days after), it naturally has me freaking out, because now there is expectation. “But it’s fine,” I told myself. “Yes, the two or three instructors and one fellow student who were there will probably remember and judge me against that prior performance, but none of the rest of the people in the room are expecting me to be exceptional one way or the other. No worries!”
…cut to yesterday morning, as Marc is giving a rundown of our master classes, and gets to the improv class. “It’s a fantastic class…which Heather completely knocked out of the park last year. They’re still talking about it!”
NO, IT’S FINE, I’LL JUST BE OVER HERE BREATHING INTO THIS PAPER BAG.
(I mean, it was totally flattering. I got singled out a couple of other times by other instructors throughout the day as well, and I’m so flattered that these people for some reason think highly of me and my abilities. But still. PRESSURE.)
My song presentation was a huge misstep from top to bottom. I picked a song I’d never done any actual work on (aside from screaming it out in the car from time to time) that shot high out of my belt range towards the end, and I let my nerves overpower me, as usual, which means that my vocal introduction to these fine folks was a jittery, disconnected few verses topped off by a panicked, caterwauling climax of the type one might hear in a failed American Idol audition. Even worse, I made a couple big, gaping rhythmic mistakes. Rhythmic mistakes. On “A Way Back to Then” from [title of show]. I have an exceptional sense of rhythm. My reliable internal metronome and capacity for memorization are perhaps my greatest strengths. What a mess. Nerves, No sleep, Never sang the song with just piano accompaniment before. IT IS THOSE THREE N’S WHICH PROVED TO BE MY UNDOING. See that you do not repeat my mistakes, mysterious anonymous reader who could possibly be from somewhere far-off and exotic and exciting but is probably just my mom because who would actually read all this drivel, honestly.
Not much else to tell. I am stoked about having ass-kicking daily dance classes again, because being obese and repulsive has gotten really goddamn old and it’s time to shed some of this nonsense. I’m wary of the Meisner, as always. And I just realized that I have to find monologues again, which I’m terrible at. Balls.