Hope Notes

I recorded four auditions last week: one for Heinz, one for a cream-based drug called VTama, one for Take Flight Air—which sounds made up—and one for the Colorado Lottery. At least the last one I knew how to pronounce.

Everyone tells you to assume nothing from an audition. Don't assume you'll get a callback. Don't assume you'll book the spot. Let go of any hope and any dream of making any money from this audition or this career and move on with your life. Which sounds great in theory.

But that's easier said than done. Despite years of submitting auditions, I still find myself hoping for the best. Every time I hit record I imagine being the voice of a cream-based drug. Each time I hit send, I picture being the hapless dad who missed his flight and whose stalwart wife, with Take Flight Air, saves the day. I mean, I can't imagine shooting an audition assuming nothing would ever come of it. If that were the case why even tape it in the first place?

The better advice is don't expect, hope. When you expect something to happen and it doesn't, it's a hit to your ego. You're playing with emotional currency. You placed a bet on booking the Colorado Lottery spot and when you don't get it, it stings. But when you hope, you dream for the best but you remain open to the possibility that things won't pan out. You hedge. You leave room for failure. Yes, it'd be awesome to get paid to talk about ketchup on television, but if someone else gets the part, you're going to be okay.

At the risk of sounding trite, you've gotta have hope. Otherwise, why even try? Without hope, the audition becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I assume I won't get it, I'll have a hard time getting jazzed for the self-tape, which will reflect in my performance, and cause the casting director to swipe left. You need hope to start the work, just don't let it drift into unbridled optimism. And that's not just true of making self-tapes. It's true of anyone hanging out in that limbo of "not yet."

Jim Collins, in Good to Great, recalls a conversation with Jim Stockdale, a retired Navy fighter pilot who spent nearly eight years in the Hanoi Hilton. Collins asks, "who didn't make it out?" Stockdale answers: "The optimists. Oh, they were the ones who said, ‘We’re going to be out by Christmas.’ And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they’d say, ‘We’re going to be out by Easter.’ And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart."

I've never been held against my will in a foreign political prison, but I have recorded forty-two takes of me saying "It’s not a cookout without Heinz, Kraft, and Oscar Mayer" from the comfort of my voice booth. Some may argue the severity is different, but the idea is the same. Don't tie hope to a deadline. Give it room. And VTama knows where to find me if they want to make me their Cream Guy.

I hope that's not what it's called...