The half-full glass is a good thing..

Let’s be honest, working in theatre can sometimes feel like walking a tightrope across a canyon of self-doubt. That sounds a bit dramatic, I know, but if you’ve spent any time in the world of theatre, you’ll get it. There’s this pressure to get it right. And recently, since leaving Half Moon, I’ve found myself being asked quite a lot to reflect on all the plays I’ve directed, shows I’ve dramaturged, productions I’ve mentored etc. etc. And I’ve started to wonder: Did I ever get it right? But then again, actually - is it even possible to get it right?

The truth is, chasing perfection can suck the life right out of the room. What if, instead of panicking about our half-empty glass, we started seeing it as half full, and full of potential? Because let’s face it: getting it wrong can actually be pretty liberating. And nothing in theatre is ever really finished is it? Everything is just a springboard for the next creative adventure.

So why do we even talk about the glass being half full? It is because of the big F-word: failure - the fear of being judged, of not being good enough, of messing up and watching the whole thing flop. And fair enough. When you’ve poured your heart into a project, the thought of failure can feel terrifying. Add to that a culture obsessed with outcomes - industry reviews, the pressure of Insta-perfect performances, of whose watching who might give the next gig - and it’s no wonder we sometimes feel there’s no room to get things wrong.

But here’s the plot twist: getting it wrong might be exactly what your work needs. Imagine a rehearsal space where mistakes aren’t embarrassing - they’re exciting. A space where fluffing a scene doesn’t derail the process but opens it up. Where laughter at failure isn’t cruel, but part of the process. That’s what happens when we invite playfulness into the room. When we stop treating failure like a shameful secret and start using it as creative fuel, everything shifts. A mistake is no longer a dead end, it’s a doorway. One that leads to risk, to spontaneity, to joy, and to those magical moments you can’t rehearse. Because really, what is performance without the risk of failure? The real stuff lives in the wobble, the surprise, the almost-didn’t-make-it moment. That’s where the life is.

So, back to our metaphorical glass. When it feels half empty, it’s easy to get discouraged. But flip it around, and it’s suddenly half full of possibility. Half full of play. Half full of whatever bold, messy, honest thing might be coming next. This isn’t about pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. It’s about how we choose to look at what’s not quite there yet. That unfinished idea. That awkward, weird, not-working-yet moment? It’s not a failure. It’s the beginning of something. What if rehearsal rooms were places where failure wasn’t just tolerated, but welcomed? What if we didn’t rush to fix every imperfect moment, but paused and explored it instead? All just part of the journey? We’d become braver. Bolder. More curious. And that half-full glass would look a lot more inviting. Because at the end of the day, perfection is boring. Risk is exciting. Vulnerability is magnetic. And failure? That’s where the magic begins.

So next time my glass feels half full, I’ll take a moment. I’ll look at it. And I’ll remind myself: it’s not a flaw. It’s my creative freedom showing up, ready to play.

Which brings me back to those questions I keep getting asked about the shows I’ve directed, the plays I’ve dramaturged, the projects I’ve mentored. From now on, my answer is this: they all sit in the half-full glass. And flawed as they probably were, they’ve each been a catalyst for the next piece of work. Each has helped me fill the glass a little more each time.

And now, I’m excited to carry that mindset into my next adventure which is already in motion. There will be more but not yet public. As coming next autumn (and now booking for touring), I’m thrilled to be directing Bones in the Desert, produced by Half Moon. Written by the brilliant British-Armenian writer Joe Nerssessian, it’s a deeply human story that leaps across time - from the deserts of 1915 to the streets of Berlin in 2022 - exploring the long shadows of genocide, the mental toll of displacement, and the way racism quietly shapes life in modern Europe.

If you're interested in finding out more about the show, or even making a booking for your venue, click on this link. Or drop me a message via this page, especially if you’ve got a project like this you'd like to chat to me about.

Here’s to the next messy, playful, beautifully imperfect chapter. Until next time.