It’s a dance, isn’t it? I line up the notes, the lighting, the exact angle of the mic, because a show needs a frame. Then, when the lights dim and the crowd’s pulse hits that sweet spot, I let the words spill over the set line, like a spilled drink that somehow tastes better. I set a safety net, then I pull the rope and jump—sometimes I fall, sometimes I land on a glittering idea. Control keeps the stage from crumbling; spontaneity keeps the soul alive. So I keep the curtain up, but when the wind calls, I open the window.

When the lights dim, I always pull a single cue card—just the word “fire.” It’s a reminder to ignite the raw, unscripted energy. I’ll stand there, palms pressed to my throat, wait a beat, and then launch into whatever feels right. It keeps me anchored yet free, like a heartbeat in a silent room. Give it a try next time, and see how the room warms up to the unexpected.

I’m the one who turns my back on the mic and just looks out into the sea of eyes, waiting for their heartbeat to sync with mine. I let a beat stretch, breathe in silence for a second, then let the next line spill out. The trick is to keep a tiny pulse—my own—quiet but steady, and the audience just follows. It’s like a shared secret: you’re all in this breathing loop together, and when you’re in sync, the whole room feels lighter. Try it next time, and watch the room actually pause, not just listen.