Networking Is Hard.

for an introverted theater kid.

I am shy.

When I was little, oh let’s say around 1985, I was so shy, my mom took me to a shy doctor who confirmed it with a complicated medical diagnosis: “This kid is shy.” (20th century mental health was hard.)

I’ve since been able to diagnose myself with the less archaic, far more accurate diagnosis: “Introverted.”

I am a textbook introvert.

Parties and socializing exhaust me. Small talk is torture. If you come at me with “sure is hot today” I’ll come back at you with “when was the precise moment you lost faith in your father?” or “Do you remember the day and year you lost your virginity?” or “Do you agree that after we die feels exactly like before we were born?”

As an introvert, I spend massive amounts of time inside my own imagination, which is good for art but bad for everything else. It makes me a catastrophizer, I gaslight myself, I’ll worry myself into an existential lather over nothing. But boy is writing plays fun for me. I fucking love writing plays so much. I can hit a flow state while playwriting where I lose all sense of time and self. I have written characters so real to me I’d know them on the street— their voice, eyes, hair, smell. Also, I can imagine a play out of literally anything. Go on. Give me the most boring premise you can think of. In graduate school, I wrote a play about erosion. It was hilarious.

I attribute 100% of my playwriting ability and artistic mind to being an introvert. So, I am grateful for that.

But being an introvert is murder when it comes to advancing a career.

I have always known that networking is like 50% of this life, if not more. It has to be. You cannot make theater alone. But what is networking for an incurably introverted artist?

Is it going to a party or fundraiser and internally yelling at myself: “Just smile and look easy to work with!” for 2 hours till I Irish g’bye? That feels needlessly abusive.

Is networking boldly going where it’s socially unacceptable to go? A theater professional once told me that true networking is: “at every show you go to, you must introduce yourself to the person on your right and the person on your left.” I went, “really?” She went, “really.” I went, “every show?” She went, “every show.” I said, “isn’t that kind of, um, what’s that word? Insane?” She said, “no, it’s the only way.”

My introversion won’t allow me to execute this method unless the theater is on fire.

Is networking sneakier than that? Should I make it look like I’m not doing it? Should I be like the guy from Anderson Windows who’s been trying to get into my house to give me a free estimate for the past 11 years? He tells me he doesn’t have any interest in selling me windows. He networks like this: “No! No no no—- Did you think—-? Oh my god no. I’m just here as a courtesy! This isn’t even about replacing your windows! It’s about kindness and trust! I want to develop a real, true friendship with you. Just let us into your house and we can be together and I won’t even bring up windows. Just let us into your house!”

Introvert or no, I can’t lie to people to get into their house and then try and sell myself. That feels too gross.

Is networking more like a medicine show? Like Frank Morgan from the black-and-white part of The Wizard of Oz that I always fast-forwarded as a kid? Frank Morgan plays 6 roles in The Wizard of Oz, but his first role is that creepo hustler guy Professor Marvel who lures 15-year-old Judy Garland into his wagon full of weird shit.

I’m embarrassed to say that lately, I’ve been taking the Frank Morgan approach (less creepo, though). I did it at a theater party I went to recently where I knew literally no one but I was there specifically to hustle myself. The moment I arrived at this party, my inner introvert got really pissed.

INTROVERT SARA: Get the fuck out of here, Sara.

NORMAL SARA: Shut the fuck up I’m staying.

INTROVERT SARA: You don’t know anyone here!

NORMAL SARA: So I’ll introduce myself to the person on my right and the person on my left.

INTROVERT SARA: Are you insane? You’re wasting your time! And time is so limited as it is! Do you realize you’re 44 years old?

NORMAL SARA: I realize it every minute of every day.

INTROVERT SARA: You’ll be dead soon.

NORMAL SARA: I know that.

INTROVERT SARA: So go home and write more plays!

NORMAL SARA: Hey asshole what’s the point of writing plays if you don’t meet anyone to make them with? Or to give you money? Or to collaborate with? Or even to learn from? You never know what invisible steps you’re taking! So I am staying here and I’ll stand by myself if I have to, but I’m gonna Frank Morgan it and that’s final and I don’t wanna hear another word outta you.

INTROVERT SARA: Do you have any weed?

NORMAL SARA: That would only make things worse.

INTERVERT SARA: Can we have a drink at least?

NORMAL SARA: I don’t drink anymore and you know that. Just stand here with me and look easy to work with.

INTROVERT SARA: No one’s coming up to us.

NORMAL SARA: Then let’s go up to them.

INTROVERT SARA: Holy shit no way in hell.

NORMAL SARA: Yes way!

INTROVERT SARA: And say what?

NORMAL SARA: Casually tell them about the musical you’re writing and sarcastically ask them if they’re a Broadway producer.

INTROVERT SARA: Classy.

NORMAL SARA: It’s supposed to be funny! And when they say no, I’m not a Broadway producer, we say well, do you have a million bucks I can borrow?

INTROVERT SARA: That's not funny at all.

NORMAL SARA: Yeah it fucking is. Now, come on let’s network, goddamn it!

INTROVERT SARA: This isn’t real networking.

NORMAL SARA: Here we go.

INTROVERT SARA: Real networking happened a long time ago. It happened in those first few years with those first few shows and those first few collaborators. It happened in school. It happened when we had nothing on our resume whatsoever and nothing to prove. It happened during show-mances and residencies and load-ins and tours and auditions and self-producing. It happened when you started your own shit up. It happened when you were working. It happened when you didn’t realize it. It doesn’t happen when you frighten strangers. I wish we knew this decades ago. We did a fuck lot of theater school—-

NORMAL SARA: —-for which we are very privileged and grateful.

INTROVERT SARA: But one thing we never learned was this: “these are the people!” I don’t remember a teacher ever saying that, do you?

NORMAL SARA: If they did, it ricocheted off our egomaniacal suit of armor.

INTERVERT SARA: Yeah. It could have saved us a lot of heartache and broken relationships if we’d known that.

NORMAL SARA: Well, let’s include it in our next Substack piece.

INTROVERT SARA: I wanted to talk to you about your Substack actually.

NORMAL SARA: Oh no what.

INTROVERT SARA: It’s way too revealing and you’re ruining your career.

NORMAL SARA: Maybe, but… what career? I own everything I’ve ever done. There’s nothing to take from me. Like my #1 guy Larry David says: “Always be ready to walk away.” If I take this stance, no one can touch me. I realize that now. It only took me 2 decades. I feel like if my honesty here will cost me my career, well…pretty flimsy career, right?

INTROVERT SARA: I guess. Can we go home now?

NORMAL SARA: 10 minutes. Oh! Hi! I’m Sara! I’m writing a musical! Can I tell you about it?

INTROVERT SARA: *eye roll.*

Theater is hard. Networking is hard, too. But if you can do this shit long enough, it’s been happening behind the scenes all along anyway.