I Memorize The Meaning, Not The Lines. Should You?

That’s the difference between a great actor and a great writer. And never the twain shall meet. To be fair, there’s also a difference between a mediocre actor and a mediocre writer.

On the other hand, there is no difference between a bad actor and a bad writer—you keep watching and reading them for the same reason you keep watching those videos of old-time steam engine train wrecks. They’re so bad they border on slapstick.

But this is about where great writing and great acting (and, if you’re a Sinatra fan, great singing) do not intersect. Both please you. That’s how they’re alike. We’re not interested in that. We want to know why the differences must exist, lest they fall from the pantheon of greatness.

Now, before we start, let’s be clear about one thing: I am obviously a writer. You know that. You’re seeing the fruit of my authorial prowess (as transmitted through my fingers tapping on a keyboard). That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m biased or not sensitive to the thespian arts.

Well, it’s more complicated than that, but you’ll have to read on to see how (and why).

Let’s start with great writing. It’s all about the words. Look at the phrases “authorial prowess” and “thespian arts” above. I could have just as easily said “writing” and “acting.” But now look for the appearance of those (or similar) words in the preceding paragraphs. You’ll see a lot of them. Great writers don’t keep using the same words and phrases over and over again. Lazy writers do.

Sometimes my writing approaches greatness. Mostly, though, I’m just lazy.

Not that lazy is bad. But it is mediocre.

Depending on the nature of the piece and the audience, repeating words and phrases is preferable (if not mandatory). Think of a user manual. You don’t want to use a million synonyms for a widget. You want to be absolutely sure the reader knows exactly what you’re referring to. If you’re reading a user manual and you see the word “widget” the first time and “gizmo” the second time, your first assumption is that they are two different parts. Technical writers (the folks who draft user manuals), therefore, not only have no problem using the same word repeatedly, but they’re required to. They’d get fired otherwise.

There are times when great writers use the same word or phrase multiple times. These great writers are either orators or comedians. In the first case, think of Mark Antony repeating “Brutus is an honorable man.” Shakespeare at his oratorical finest (q.v., “The Anatomy of the Perfect Speech,” Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, October 24, 2024). The “honorable man” phrase is a classic callback. Speakers use it to emphasize a point.

Comedians use it to increase the laughs. Among the most memorable examples is the “Swallow joke” from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. In an early scene, a guard argues with King Arthur over how far a swallow can carry a coconut. Another guard comes in and debates with the first guard as to whether they should consider an African or a European swallow. The two ignore Arthur. Towards the end of the movie, the keeper of the Bridge of Death asks King Arthur, “What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?” Remembering his earlier encounter with the guards, Arthur sincerely asks, “Do you mean an African swallow or a European swallow?”

Ok, it’s much funnier if you watch the early and late scenes yourself.

That’s just one difference between the written word and the spoken word. Still, an artfully written script can easily translate into audio excellence. But you need to be a good actor to pull it off. Scriptwriters often complain about actors who veer from the fruits of their handiwork.

I know. Firsthand. I wrote a play (The Macaroni Kid) that was performed masterfully by the Monsignor Schnacky Players before sellout audiences. Despite the success, it irked me when actors forgot or replaced words. The audience never knew. I did.

But I was being harsh. Too harsh.

I failed to remember that when the shoe’s on my foot, I can’t memorize lines worth a darn. No short-term memory. Ever since that concussion playing “touch” football in college. But that’s another story.

While I can’t retain lines word-for-word, at least in a long-term way, I don’t have a problem understanding and remembering the meaning of those lines.

This begs the question: What’s more important? The lines or the meaning?

This harkens back to the sincerity vs. technique dichotomy (see “Skill vs. Soul: The Agonizing Choice Between Technique or Sincerity,” Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, January 9, 2025). Like sincerity, the lines represent the art (“sincerity”). Likewise, the meaning equates with the practical (“technique”).

Here’s the twist. Great actors fuse the two. They interpret the lines. They look deep into the meaning of the words. They memorize the lines, but they convey them with meaning. Frank Sinatra did this when he sang lyrics into raw emotion. Each in their own way, Marlon Brando and Charlton Heston did this when they read Antony’s eulogy to Caesar.

The best of both possible worlds.

Well, I’m not a great actor. The best I can hope for is mediocre.

I’ll take the meaning over the lines any time.