This Question is often asked by many people , The same people who sit and bemoan the lack of new things, the same old faces doing the same thing year in year out, or who are the first to say well I could do it better The AGM is the normally the only chance in the year that Member can actively influence the direction the club, society or wider grouping takes. Yes, this not glamours thing to-do and yes you are more likely to get brick tossed at you rather than flowers, but behind each and every successful drama society, Production or Festival is a small hardworking committee who every time source a venue, find funding and get productions underway and do a myriad of other tasks , programmes don’t write themselves. So spare a thought when you next say I could do it better ask yourself Why didn't I go to the AGM and support the committee or volunteer to take on a role

Well… that was something, wasn’t it? If you’re sitting there feeling like tonight’s final dress rehearsal was less Broadway-ready and more chaotic dress parade, let me tell you: you’re exactly where you need to be. Really. I promise. Somewhere deep in the laws of theatre, right next to "never say Macbeth backstage" and "someone will always forget a prop until two minutes before curtain," there’s a rule that says: A rough final dress leads to a great opening night. It's basically science. (Or at least very aggressive superstition. Same thing.) Here’s the thing: bad final dress rehearsals are a rite of passage. They’re a necessary part of the process. They shake all the weird, nervous energy out. They reveal the tiny things that need tightening. And maybe, just maybe, they humble us a little bit before we get too confident and start monologuing to the wrong side of the audience. (It happens. We move on.) Now, some advice — the real kind: Take a deep breath. Laugh a little. Make a quick m

never thought I had a fear of heights. I had been on rollercoasters, hiked up cliffsides, and even flown in small planes without a second thought. But it wasn’t until I found myself perched on a narrow platform high above a theatre stage, trying to focus a lighting instrument during tech week, that I realized something was very wrong. My legs went stiff. My palms were sweating so badly that I couldn’t grip the wrench. I wasn’t scared. I was terrified. And I still had three more lights to adjust. It turns out I’m not alone. That’s what sparked this article. I realized how rarely we talk about the physical fears that come with working in theatre. We talk about performance anxiety, stage fright, creative blocks, and burnout. But not the sheer, gut-level fear that can take over when you’re ten feet up on a ladder, or stepping onto a suspended platform, or climbing into a catwalk for the first time. In theatre, we ask people to be bold. To climb. To fly. To build and hang and perform from

I still remember the way the curtains looked from the wings. Heavy. Velvet. Red. They seemed impossibly tall, like they could swallow me whole. It was opening night of my middle school’s spring musical, and even though I was technically just part of the ensemble, standing in the back, clapping in rhythm during the big numbers, it felt like everything was riding on that moment. The lights were hot, the music had started, and my cue was coming fast. I froze. My heart raced. My hands were slick. I couldn’t feel my feet. Every line I’d memorized, every blocking note I’d scribbled into the margins of my script, gone. My brain had packed up and left the building. I remember standing there, thinking: What if I mess up? What if I fall? What if I completely ruin this for everyone? And then, somehow, I moved. I stepped onto the stage. I opened my mouth. I did it. Was it perfect? No. Did I survive? Absolutely. And more than that, I fell in love. With the adrenaline, with the rush, with the feelin

There’s a backstage ritual that never gets old: The moment the props table is finally set. For some, it’s just a mess of objects waiting to be used. But in reality it’s order, intention, and a small act of theatrical magic. A well-organized props table may not earn applause, but trust me—it can and will save a show. Let’s start with the basics. A good props table isn’t just a pile of stuff. It’s a map. It should mirror the show’s order—left to right, top to bottom, however makes sense for your space. If you’re lucky enough to have more than one table, assign them by wing or scene. And label everything. Sharpie on gaff tape works fine, but if you want to level up, trace each item’s shape on butcher paper and write the name inside. That way, when something’s missing, it’s obvious at a glance. Props tables work best when they’re zoned. That means grouping items by actor, scene, or act. If one actor needs a letter, a pen, and a pair of gloves for Scene 3, give them their own little corner

Amateur theatre is built on good intentions, long nights, and a lot of people saying yes when they’re already stretched thin. But sometimes, even with the best of intentions, life changes. Priorities shift. Rehearsals stop being fun. And the right thing to do is leave. I'm not going to tell you when to leave. No red flag checklist here. You know your own limits. You know your schedule, your mental health, your family, your obligations. You know your own voice. When that voice gets loud enough to say, “I can’t do this anymore,” this is your guide for how to walk away the right way. Know Why You're Leaving—and Be Honest With Yourself Before you say anything to anyone else, take a quiet moment and ask yourself: what’s really going on? Is this about scheduling? Burnout? Creative conflict? A director who makes you uncomfortable? A family situation? A new job? You don’t owe anyone a TED Talk, but you should have a handle on what’s driving the decision. That clarity will help you speak to oth