Impulse, Vulnerability, and the Risk That Makes It Worth Watching

There’s a moment in every rehearsal room or draft where you either lean in or pull back. That’s the moment I’m always watching for because it’s where the real work begins.

Most actors and writers are taught to control. Hit your mark. Nail the beat. Know what the scene is “about.” That’s fine until it becomes a crutch. What makes an audience lean forward isn’t precision. It’s danger. It’s surprise. It’s that live-wire feeling that something honest is cracking through. And that only happens when you take a risk.

Impulse is the start of everything worth a damn. I don’t care if you’re staring down a blank Final Draft doc or stepping into a cold read. You’ve got to give that first instinct a shot. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s wrong. But it’s real. And if you can stay with it without judging it, you’ll land somewhere that feels alive.

Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s fuel.Some people hear that word and picture a shaky monologue with fake tears. That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean the kind of openness where your guard drops and your actual voice shows up. On stage, that’s electric. On the page, it’s undeniable. We don’t need more polished characters. We need ones that bleed a little. We need actors and writers who are willing to be seen, not perform being seen.

Risk is the bridge between impulse and craft.Without it, impulse stays raw and vulnerability stays internal. Risk is the choice to follow that thread out loud. To keep going when you don’t know how the line ends. To try the read that feels scary. To write the scene you’re avoiding.

Good writing and good acting both come from the same place—truth filtered through structure. But the truth part comes first. And it’s often messy, embarrassing, or weird. Good. That’s where your edge lives.

When you stop trying to look good and start trying to be honest, your work gets better. Sharper. Riskier. And ironically, more professional. Because that’s the stuff directors remember. That’s what keeps readers turning pages. That’s what fills seats.

So whether you’re prepping a monologue or building a new play, stop trying to get it right. Try getting it real.

And then refine it.

That’s the work.