Tour Whore, July 29, 2012

Hard Times - Strap in and get out the tarp
by Cameryn Moore


First of all, I should say that Winnipeg Fringe is not a bad Fringe, objectively. I would not have kept applying to get in over the past two years if it was a bad Fringe. In 2010 and 2011 I made decent money here, sold out at least one show each Fringe, and oh my god, for a loudmouthed flirt like myself, the line-ups here are HEAVEN.

But this year in Winnipeg has been hard for me. And while I don’t think I’ve been all sweetness and light up until now, I haven’t had a Fringe like this in a long time, if ever, in terms of grinding me down. So in the interest of giving y’all a full-spectrum sense of the touring life, I’m gonna share. Strap in and get out the tarp.

Somewhere in there, though, my voice started failing, getting huskier and softer.


I got in Monday night of opening week, and everything kicked off just fine: put up some posters, did my tech, hosted a well-attended Smut Slam on Tuesday, facilitated an artist discussion on Wednesday about street promo, opened as one of the first shows on Wednesday evening. Somewhere in there, though, my voice started failing, getting huskier and softer. I used mics wherever I could, but in retrospect, I don’t think I should have gone out and flyered the D&D improv line-up Wednesday night. Talking loudly in the middle of a rowdy bunch of geeks just sealed the deal:

On Thursday morning my voice was gone. Gone, gone, gone. My throat didn’t hurt, I didn’t feel sick at all, but I had no voice.

Of course I panicked. I asked my actorly friends for remedies and was flooded with the old wives’ tales and folk remedies and brand names for cough syrups and lozenges. But the number-one thing was, of course, don’t talk.

My voice is how I sell my fucking show


That’s all I do in Winnipeg is talk. It’s my superpower. It’s how I combat reviewers who take off stars just because shows aren’t “appropriate for all audiences”. It’s how I lower the anxiety levels of patrons who can’t quite believe that I’m saying the word “sex” to their face. It’s how I charm grandmothers into giggling and reaching out for a card, and offer subtle slap-downs to sulky 20-year-olds who think I can’t know more about sex than they do. My voice is how I sell my fucking show; it enables me to feel connected to a wonderful theatre-going community. And it was gone.

I did the remedies, and didn’t talk except for my shows, and even made up an interactive sandwich-board sign that offered patrons 11 different silly/sexy reasons for why I had lost my voice. I walked around with that during opening weekend, and did manage to hand some cards out. Some people complimented me later on how fun it was. But even on that first day of flyering, I could feel that the rate and level of engagement was well below my usual standard, and I was afraid.

the idea of designing a title to pander makes me feel a little queasy


Sure enough, my audience turnout has been low, relative to years past. I feel fucking AWESOME about the show, and word of mouth has been good to great, but it hasn’t built the way it has in years past. I won’t ever know for sure what that is about, but it’s almost certainly a combination of not being able to street-promo the way I normally would AND not having either “slut” or “whore” in the title of this year’s show. I have to leave that last factor alone right now; the idea of designing a title to pander makes me feel a little queasy, especially because some people already think I did that with my first two shows. 

ANYWAY.

Mediocre box office has equaled no Best of Fest—the top two box-office hits in each venue earn that designation here in Winnipeg. I won Best of Fest last year for slut (r)evolution, and while I don’t say that I was expecting that again or in any way coasting on my laurels, not having sufficient box office returns to even make that a possibility this year just … made me feel shitty and angry about my voice again.

“I want this kind of crowd. I deserve this kind of crowd, too.”


And it’s stirred up all kinds of other things, too, feelings that I’m not enjoying at all. Like Audience Envy. That’s when I’m flyering someone else’s sold-out show, or sitting in a theatre packed with 200+ people at 11pm, and rather than fully working the chat that I’m having with a patron, or really enjoying the awesome show by someone who I consider a Fringe friend, all I can think is “I want this kind of crowd. I deserve this kind of crowd, too.” I have always said that there are enough audiences at Winnipeg to go around, the good shows can all have a big piece. And I still believe that’s true. But how could I speak out for my share when I had NO VOICE?

Review Rage, too. Reviewers here have always been skimpy with the stars for my shows. I’ve gotten good reviews and awards and nominations in other places, but here, well, I have always had to push back against the star trends. This year, I actually got good reviews from both major outlets, but the stars didn’t match; that is, in a three-star review I got only good things, no critique. Normally I would just brush that off as idiots and just go out and flirt some more with patrons, but NO VOICE.

My bad feelings and fucked-up body have trickled down into everything. I can’t go and hang out with other artists at the King’s Head because it’s too loud and I don’t want to hurt my voice further (it’s just starting to heal). I can’t take phone sex calls properly. I eat a little bit of yogurt and raw oatmeal in the morning, and then I don’t eat at all until I get back at midnight or 1, when I eat canned soup and cheese sandwiches, not because it’s easy, but because I don’t have the money to do anything else. I am having a bill-paying crisis right now, and that just adds to the stress. This goes beyond artistic fear and into old, remembered terror about not having enough to eat.

My lovers, real and potential, well, this isn’t the fun, upbeat, erotic Cameryn they know!


Welcome to the dark side. This is the underbelly of risk and venture. In the middle of it, it feels interminable, an abysmal murk that is all the scarier because it is so hard to talk to anyone about. With other artists, it feels like untargeted vents or ungrateful complaining or sour grapes. With non-Fringe friends, they don’t understand how primal and terrifying this insecurity feels. My lovers, real and potential, well, this isn’t the fun, upbeat, erotic Cameryn they know! And anyway, didn’t I know this was a possibility?

Yeah, I did. And I imagine that every veteran Fringe artist out there has gone through at least one Fringe like this, if not whole seasons, where everything goes wrong, or just one thing goes wrong, and then the whole thing feels like it’s collapsing underneath their feet. That doesn’t help me out of my own crap, but it reminds me that every artist I admire must have gone through something like this, maybe still does sometimes. 

So what do I do? 

- I make art out of it. I write it up.
- I make little treats for myself. (Today I wear one of my nice dresses and red lipstick, and I see a couple of shows, and treat myself to a cider with a good friend.)
- I revisit creative pursuits. Creative, versus performative, i.e. yesterday I sat out with the typewriter and did some sidewalk smut. Next week in Calgary I’m going to spend some time on the script for next year’s show.
- I juggle projects. Creative, performative, administrative. Things with different timelines, to remind myself that I have lots of good things in the hopper.
- I stay social. I want to retreat, I want to hide. I want to be a sick dog under the porch. But I make myself go back out. Fake it ‘til I make it again.

And I line the inside of my mind with affirmations. Success isn’t a linear path, I remind myself, it’s a spiral with different levels. Or, “just keep swimming”, a la Finding Nemo. And then I think, well, that was stupid. I better go eat a cheese sandwich, because in about an hour, I’ve got to go out there and do it again.