For one artist, refining her craft means learning to let go

Arts and Culture contributor Melissa Kaplan is a longtime musician currently writing and developing her first one-woman musical. She will detail the ups and down of the artistic process in a recurring feature for Annenberg Radio News. Learn more about Melissa's project and hear the first installment of this series here.

It's Saturday morning, and I'm pacing in weird patterns on hardwood floor in the upstairs of a church in Pasadena. Sometimes I shout, HA-HA!, move my mouth in a clock-wise pattern, or say "Unique New York." I narrowly miss colliding with my five other classmates, all doing the same thing.

It may seem eccentric, but this is part of my process. I'm writing and performing a musical, so I need to know how to become a character. And these acting classes are helping me access my emotions and my body, and think in dimensions I'd never considered when I was performing in rock bands.

In class, we each take turns performing monologues or scenes from plays and TV and movies, and one-person shows — whatever requires being open and vulnerable in front of others. This class could easily save relationships or stop world wars if the right people were to attend.

This is the next level for me. It's uncomfortable, but fun!

This also isn't my first acting class. I started into this world last fall, when I took solo performance class at USC. I used to harbor a very ill-fated combo of a mantra: "I want to do something new, and I want to be the best at it right now." This line of thinking usually meant preventing myself from even starting anything in order to save myself from being bad at it.

But I had to push through now. I was being graded.

I'd come to class with a concept ready: I was going to tell the story of a knife juggler that ran away from a carnival. I spent three months work shopping crude drafts and figuring out the subtleties of my character.

And three weeks before our class showcase, I called up my ex-band's producer, Michael. We put in a solid 15-hour weekend recording background tracks for me to sing to on stage.

Opening night was a head trip. I got up, cued the music, and began singing my opener.

And then I found myself face to face with somebody's very bored uncle, sitting with his head in his hand and his legs wide open in the front row. It took some effort to compartmentalize my reaction to his lack-of reaction, but I'm a pro. It was fine. I kept going.

I roamed off stage as the last song faded, and after I got some rest, my solo performance teacher emailed me about her Saturday morning classes. I didn't hesitate. Bored uncles be damned.