The Director's Cut by Js Taylor (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt) 📕

As those he’s mentally preparing himself.

I know they must have been briefed in part, before accepting their roles, as to what they might expect. But I don’t know how much they know about The Berkeley Method. Probably as little as I do.

No wonder they both look anxious. For my part, I am absolutely terrified.

James reaches into his pocket and draws out a small fabric bag.

“Inside this bag, I have four slips of paper,” he says. “Each has on it a different word explaining a different emotion.”

I feel my stomach tighten, and my heart begin to quicken.

What will we have to do?

“We’ll each draw out a slip of paper,” says James. His eyes are only on my face, as though he’s trying to reassure me. But it hardly registers in the whirl of fear I feel rising in my body.

“What I want you all to do is think of a memory associated with that emotion,” he explains.

No, no, no!

This is one of the main reasons I dodged as many acting classes as I could at drama school. I always hated having to spill in front of the group.

Script writing allows you to control what emotions you show.

Maybe that’s the real reason I chose writing over acting.

James is still speaking, and I force myself to tune back in.

“And then we’ll each write down a few paragraphs about that memory,” he explains. “After that, I’ll read them out.” He pauses a moment to make sure we’ve all understood. “They’ll all remain anonymous,” he adds, “so no one has to know the memory is yours, unless you want them too.”

In the maelstrom of emotions, this has a calming effect. I mentally do the math. Four of us. No one has to know which paper was mine.

The thought makes me feel slightly better.

“The point of the exercise,” says James, “is to help you open up to one another. The best acting comes from a feeling of trust and support in the cast. That’s what we’re looking to build in these method sessions. But we’re starting gently.”

I sneak a look at Natalie, wondering if there’s a chance she’d ever feel close to her fellow actors. To my surprise, she looks accepting, as though she was expecting this.

I guess she’s just come from rehab. Maybe they do a lot of this kind of stuff.

“We don’t have to write a lot, do we?” Natalie asks. “I’m not the world’s best writer.”

James shakes his head. “Just a few paragraphs. No need to worry about spelling or grammar.”

Natalie nods, looking relieved.

It never occurred to me that she would struggle with basic writing. But I realise that as a child star, she probably missed out on a lot of schooling.

I feel a little sad for her, wondering how a poor education might have limited her options. There’s not much else she’s qualified for, if her acting dries up.

James lifts the bag and shakes it.

“Callum?” he says, “would you like to go first?”

Callum stands and approaches James. He pushes his fist inside the bag and makes a little joke about fishing for the paper, twisting his face as he mauls the bag.

Finally he pulls out a slip, and holds it aloft.

“I have my slip,” he announces, returning to his seat.

Natalie is already heading towards the bag as he sits down. I can’t see her face, but from James’s stern expression, she’s looking for clues as to which paper to pick.

“Just take a slip, Natalie,” says James calmly. “There’s no way of telling the difference.”

She picks out her paper, and James regards me.

“Issy,” he says, “would you like to go next? Or shall I pick mine?”

I shrug. “Pick yours.”

I can’t imagine it would make any difference.

James plucks his out of the bag. I see his face shift as he regards it. But beyond that, I can’t make out what he’s feeling.

He heads over to me and holds the bag out.

Watching his face, I dip my hand inside and close it around the last piece of paper.

I feel James’s little finger sneak out and softly stroke the top of my hand.

An electric current shoots through my body, and in that sudden moment, I’m shot through with desire for him.

I return him a little secret smile, and then pull my hand out, the paper in my closed fist. I walk away, driving down the sudden surging feelings, and try to concentrate on what’s expected of me.

“Alright then,” says James, moving away. “You have pens and paper beside you on the floor. We’ll take five minutes or so to write out our memories. Just do the first thing which comes into your head.”

I unfold my paper with a deep sense of dread and read the single word written there.

Shame.

I feel my face fall and work to marshal my expression to neutral. This is better than I feared, I guess. The worst would be ‘grief’ or ‘loss’.

Nevertheless, it’s not a nice emotion to investigate.

I take a glance around the group. Everyone has similarly downcast expressions, so I’m guessing all the emotions are difficult.

The knowledge that we only have five minutes forces me to act. I have no time to search for the answer which makes me look the best.

Everyone else is already scribbling away. They must be aware of the time constraints too.

So I just write the most shameful thing which comes to mind. It’s an effort, and I’m almost forcing my pen to move.

Ugh. What a horrible exercise. I’m hating myself, just writing this.

I’ve barely gotten the words down when James announces the time is up.

“How did you all do?”

No one answers, and judging from all our faces, no one enjoyed this exercise.

“Ok,” says James, filling in the silence. “No one enjoyed that. I certainly didn’t. If we could all toss them back into the bag, and we’ll get on with the next part.”

Silently, we all add our papers to the bag.

James shakes it up.

Then he reaches in and pulls out the first slip.

“I’m not going to tell you the emotion that generated any of the