Good morning đđź Good news: this is not a think piece about the barrage of tariffs swamping the news cycle.
While someone smarter than me could probably write a dissertation on how rising costs and market volatility might impact the theater industryâIâve been, in true existential theater kid fashion, thinking about what those ideas mean for us as creatives.
Because whether youâre trying to write a play, market a show, or simply post something that feels honestâthere are costs. Always.
And in an industry obsessed with âtaking stockâ of itselfâwhere every week weâre either in a downfall or a renaissance (and never anything in between?)âthose costs can be hard to see clearly.
So this week, Iâm thinking about creative tariffs.
The external ones.
The internal ones.
How instability and possibility go hand in hand.
And why any of this matters.
Letâs get into it.
The External Tariffs
we had it coming all along
In traditional trade, tariffs are meant to protect an economy. In creative work, they often protect the status quo. They add invisible costsâbarriers, delays, and conditionsâto anything that challenges the marketâs definition of what's âviable.â
You hear it in notes, meetings, approvals, and emails:
âWe canât say that.â
âThat wonât sell.â
âThatâs too political.â
âWhereâs the audience for this?â
âYouâre not quite right for that.â
These are the tolls we pay to pass through the system. They shape who gets to create, what gets greenlit, and how the work has to bend to fit âthe market.â Whether itâs a pitch, a piece of content, a self-tape, or a whole production, the message is often the same: bold is goodâuntil it makes someone uncomfortable. Original is greatâuntil it feels unfamiliar.
Weâre asked to make something new, safe, viral, and universalâall at once. That kind of creative calculus flattens everything. And it doesnât just affect the final productâit reshapes the entire process. What gets pitched. Who gets called in. How stories are told, sold, and softened.
Actors, writers, designers, producers, and marketers all know the feeling of being toldâdirectly or indirectlyâto shrink what weâre offering in order to make it more âpalatable.â Sometimes the ask is explicit. More often, itâs embedded in the culture. A quiet caution that says: play it safe if you want to stay in the room.
And whether youâre making the work, selling the work, or simply auditioning to be part of it, the underlying message is often the same: donât be too risky. Donât be too loud. Donât be too much.
What begins as a structural barrier often becomes a personal one. And we carry the weight of the industry inside our own creative process.
The Internal Tariffs
These arenât the tolls the industry imposes.
Theyâre the ones we start to impose on ourselves.
They often begin quietlyâso quietly we mistake them for caution or common sense. We second-guess the idea before we write it down. We soften our voice to feel more professional. We tweak our tone to sound more âmarketable.â Over time, we learn to anticipate the no. So we stop before anyone else can.
Some of these tariffs show up as self-doubt. Others as perfectionism. And many as code-switchingâchanging how we speak, perform, or express ourselves to fit the expectations of a space that wasnât built with us in mind. We adjust, adapt, rehearse. Not because weâre unsure of what we want to say, but because weâre trying to protect itâand ourselvesâfrom being misunderstood.
And when we do share somethingâan idea, a pitch, a performanceâthe cost doesnât end there. Because even when the feedback isnât personal, it can still feel personal. Thatâs the paradox of making something honest: it invites connection, but also exposure.
These are the internal tariffs: the invisible costs of being vulnerable, of staying true, of putting anything real into the world. They donât show up on spreadsheets. But theyâre just as real as the structural barriersâand often harder to name.
The Volatility Paradox
If youâve spent any time in a rehearsal room, in tech, or watching the grosses fluctuate week to week, you already knowâthis industry doesnât move in a straight line. The swings are sharp. One week youâre trending, the next week youâre closing. Momentum is real, but itâs not stable.
Itâs tempting to read this volatility as a flaw. As proof that somethingâs broken. But what if itâs just how the system works? And more importantlyâwhat if itâs also where the opportunity lives?
In traditional markets, volatility is where investors see potential. When prices drop, they donât always pull backâthey buy in. Because the dip doesnât just represent loss. It represents possibility. A chance to try something new, take a bigger swing, or invest in the kind of creative risk that doesnât get cleared during peak season.
When things feel uncertainâwhen the budget is tight, or the press isnât landing, or the energy around a project is starting to wobbleâthatâs often when bold ideas have the most room to breathe. Thereâs less pressure. Less scrutiny. More creative slack in the system. Ironically, the moments that feel the most unstable are often the ones where something truly original can be made.
Volatility isnât comfortable. But itâs natural. And in many cases, itâs necessary. Instability doesnât just shake things upâit clears the space. For innovation. For reinvention. For something new to emerge that couldnât exist when everything was âworking.â
The drop doesnât mean the work is over. It might be the beginning of the work that actually matters.
Now What?
The tariffs we faceâexternal, internal, and emotionalâarenât always avoidable. Theyâre baked into the systems we work within, and often into the identities we carry with us. But if we canât always avoid them, we can at least stop pretending theyâre invisible.
But naming them changes the work. Not just the art itself, but the process of making it. The conversations we have. The expectations we hold. And it gives us permission to ask questions we might not have known we were allowed to ask.
What am I giving up to make this feel more âmarketableâ?
Whose approval am I designing for?
Is this feedback about the workâor about the system that surrounds it?
When we name the toll, we stop mistaking it for truth.
The goal isnât to avoid every cost. Itâs to know when youâre paying oneâand decide for yourself if itâs worth it.
âđź One last thingâŚ
hey look its me
Weâre in our final week of previews for All The Worldâs a Stage, and the process has been equal parts joyful and physically demandingâmore than I expected, if Iâm being honest. Itâs taken a toll on my body and mind in ways I didnât fully anticipate. And because of that, Iâve had less time and energy to give to creating content, sharing behind-the-scenes, or promoting this newsletter the way I hoped I would.
But Iâm naming that. And in doing so, Iâm releasing it.
Itâs a cost Iâve chosen to carry, and a tradeoff I donât regret.
Whatâs surprised me most isnât just the external exhaustionâbut the internal excavation. Being 33, ten years into my life in New York, and being trusted with a lead role in a new musical has unearthed things I didnât know I was holding. Insecurity. Expectation. Pressure. Pride. Imposter syndrome. All of it.
But Iâve also been metâagain and againâby the grace of the people around me. Iâve leaned heavily on my friends and family these past few weeks. And Iâve been blown away by their capacity for love, for support, and for reminding me who I am when I canât quite see it for myself.
That, too, is part of the work. And itâs a toll I donât mind paying.
If youâre feeling stretched, or behind, or like the work (or life as a whole) is costing more than you plannedâI see you. This season is asking a lot from all of us. But maybe naming that is its own kind of progress. Maybe the toll is also a signal: that you're building something real, and you're not doing it alone.
See you next week âĽď¸
âMatt