The Never-Ending Audition Monologue Rulebook

Not too long.
Not too short.
Not the character we are auditioning for,
or the playwright,
or the play—
but similar to all of them.
Yet not too similar.

Show range.
Show yourself.
Make us laugh
and cry,
ideally at the same time.
But don’t force it.

Take up space
and use the chair we’ve provided.
Not for the whole time, though; this is theatre, after all. You need to be able to move.

Make sure the character moves.
Move us.
Be moved.
Not too quickly.
Not too slowly.

Stop.

This is only a fraction of what I have accumulated in the Never-Ending Audition Monologue Rulebook, and for most of my life, carrying it into an audition left me exhausted before I even entered the room.

Whenever I searched for a new monologue, I approached it as a product. How would this piece demonstrate my ability to cry? Was I funny enough in it? Did the character have agency? Was I pursuing a clear objective from the person I was speaking to? I felt as though I needed to choose material for the people behind the table rather than for the artist who would actually have to spend hours reading, rehearsing, and living inside it.

The work became less about discovering what interested me and more about assembling evidence that I could act correctly.

Over the past few years, that approach has begun to change. As I have tried to rebuild my relationship with acting, I have started working from a place where my passion for the story matters more than my desire to impress someone or make the “right” choice.

The rules have not disappeared. Instead, they have begun to feel more like the walls of a sandbox: a form I can play within rather than a test I am destined to fail.

I just recently went to my first audition in years and I found myself asking different questions when choosing material. What story can I tell through these pieces? What kinds of worlds do I want to inhabit? Which characters make me curious enough to spend time inside their experience? What might this particular audition invite me to investigate?

The number of plays available to me still feels overwhelming, yet the opportunities for growth inspire me. I get to encounter characters through the specific lens of the work in front of me. I can decide whether to learn something new or return to a familiar piece and discover how it changed with me.

A monologue no longer has to prove that I already possess every skill required for the role. It can become part of how I develop those skills.

That may be the most valuable change: the rulebook as a guidebook. Its questions can help me shape an audition, but they no longer determine the worth of the work. They help me consider clarity, contrast, movement, tone, and storytelling while leaving room for the material to reveal something genuine about what excites me as an artist.

I’m sure the old desire to be good, funny, moving, or undeniably castable will return occasionally. When/if it does, I will try to remind myself that my relationship to the work matters more than the concept of a finished product. I am still in process, and my passion for that process is allowed to appear in the room.

The people considering whether to work with me are not only seeing what I can produce. They are also receiving a glimpse of how I think, what draws me toward a story, and the kind of artist I might be in collaboration.

Perhaps that is the only audition rule I am truly interested in keeping: choose work that allows me to share my craft without hiding my curiosity behind the need to impress.

Whether or not the rest of the rulebook agrees.