For a long time, my post-show process consisted of packing up my props, making small talk with the event organizer, and driving home while replaying the show in my head. By the time I got back to my apartment or hotel room, the performance had already been filtered through my emotions and rewritten by my memory. The good parts were amplified. The rough parts were minimized. And any useful information that might have helped me improve had evaporated into the comfortable fog of “yeah, that went okay.”
I needed a system. Not because I am the kind of person who systematizes everything — although my consulting background certainly made me predisposed to frameworks — but because the alternative was not working. Vague post-show impressions were not making me better. I could feel it. Month after month, I was performing at roughly the same level, making roughly the same mistakes, with roughly the same strengths and weaknesses. The shows varied, but I was not progressing.
The checklist I am about to share did not arrive fully formed. It evolved over about eighteen months of trial and error, influenced heavily by what I learned from Dan Harlan’s lecture on magic as theatre, where he lays out a seven-stage theatrical rehearsal process that treats every element of performance — from blocking to dress rehearsal — as a discrete, reviewable component. That idea of breaking performance into discrete, reviewable components is the spine of everything that follows.
Why a Checklist and Not a Journal
Before I describe the checklist itself, I want to explain why I chose this format. I tried journaling. After shows, I would open a notebook and write paragraphs about how the performance felt, what the audience was like, what surprised me. The problem with paragraphs is that they invite narrative, and narrative invites interpretation. I would start writing about a weak transition and end up writing about how the audience was probably just tired from the conference presentations earlier in the day. The journal became a place where I explained away my weaknesses rather than documenting them.
A checklist does not allow for narrative. It asks specific questions and demands specific answers. It forces brevity. It is designed to capture information, not feelings. You can write feelings in the margins if you want, but the checklist itself is an accountability structure. Did this work? Yes or no. Was this present? Yes or no. Rate this on a scale. Move on.
The discipline of the checklist format also solved a timing problem. After a show, you have maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the details start to blur. A journal entry takes thirty minutes or more. A checklist takes five to seven. I can complete it before the event wraps up, standing in a hallway or sitting in a corner of the venue with my phone. That immediacy is essential. The closer to the performance, the more accurate the assessment.
The Checklist
Here is what I review after every show. I have organized it into five sections, each targeting a different dimension of the performance.
Section One: Reactions
This section asks whether the show did what it was designed to do. Every segment of a performance should target one of three audience reactions: rapt attention, laughter, or astonishment. If a moment does not target one of those three, it is filler — necessary instructions or transitions that should be minimized.
For each routine in the set, I note which reaction I was targeting and whether I achieved it. Not in abstract terms. In specific, observable terms. Did the audience lean forward during the mentalism piece? That is rapt attention. Did the table with the four executives laugh during the card routine’s comedy beat? That is laughter. Did the woman I brought on stage as a volunteer gasp at the reveal? That is astonishment.
I also note any moments where I got a different reaction than the one I intended. Sometimes this is a positive surprise — a moment designed for attention gets a laugh, which is fine. Sometimes it is a warning sign — a moment designed for astonishment gets a polite nod, which means the routine is not hitting the way it should.
The most important entry in this section is the simplest: Were there any moments that generated no reaction at all? These are the dead zones. The places where the audience was neither attentive, nor laughing, nor astonished. These moments are the first candidates for cutting or restructuring in the next rehearsal.
Section Two: Dead Spots
Dead spots deserve their own section because they are the silent killers of a performance. A dead spot is not the same as a quiet moment. Quiet moments can be powerful — a deliberate pause, a moment of tension, a beat where the audience holds its breath. Dead spots are the opposite: moments where nothing meaningful is happening and the audience’s attention begins to drift.
I check for dead spots in three places where they most commonly occur.
Transitions between routines. The moment between the end of one piece and the beginning of the next is the most vulnerable point in any show. The previous routine’s energy has dissipated. The next routine has not yet begun. If I do not fill that gap with something engaging — a story, a comment, a callback — the audience starts to disengage. I note the duration of each transition and whether I successfully maintained engagement through it.
Setup and procedure. Some routines require explanation or setup before the magic can happen. “I need you to write something on this card.” “Please shuffle the deck.” “Think of any word.” These procedural moments are necessary but inherently low-energy. I note whether I found ways to make the procedure interesting — through humor, through engagement with the volunteer, through framing that creates anticipation — or whether I let the procedure speak for itself, which is almost always flat.
Recovery time after big moments. This one is counterintuitive. After a strong reaction — a big laugh, a gasp of astonishment — there is often a moment where the energy peaks and then needs somewhere to go. If I move too quickly to the next thing, I step on the reaction. If I wait too long, the energy dissipates into a dead spot. I note whether I managed the post-reaction moment well or whether I either rushed it or lost it.
Section Three: Build and Structure
A show is not a flat line. It is a rising line — or it should be. Each routine should be stronger than the last, or at least each section should build to a peak. The overall trajectory should climb toward the biggest, most impactful moment at the end.
In this section, I assess whether the build worked. Did the show feel like it was going somewhere? Did the energy increase as the set progressed? Was the closing routine the strongest moment, or did something earlier in the show overshadow it?
I also check for what I call premature peaks — moments where the energy reaches a high point too early in the set, making everything afterward feel like a letdown. If a routine in the middle of the show gets a bigger reaction than the closing routine, that is a structural problem. Not necessarily with the routines themselves, but with their placement in the set.
The build question also applies within individual routines. Each routine should have its own internal arc — a beginning that sets the stakes, a middle that builds tension, and a climax that delivers the payoff. I check each routine for whether that internal build was present or whether the routine felt flat and linear.
Section Four: Transitions
I already mentioned transitions in the dead spots section, but they get their own section too because they are that important. Transitions are the connective tissue of a show, and weak connective tissue makes even strong routines feel disjointed.
For each transition, I note three things. First, what I said or did during the transition. If I cannot remember, that is itself a data point — it means the transition was probably on autopilot, and autopilot transitions are almost always weak. Second, how long the transition lasted. Transitions should be brief. If a transition runs longer than the time it takes to say two or three sentences, something has gone wrong — I am fumbling with props, I am searching for words, I am filling time. Third, whether the transition maintained or broke the audience’s engagement. Did people stay focused, or did I see the telltale signs of drift — shifting in seats, side conversations starting, eyes moving to phones?
The transitions section is where I find the most consistent improvement opportunities. The routines themselves tend to be well-rehearsed. The transitions, because they live in the spaces between the rehearsed material, are where the rough edges show.
Section Five: Pace and Timing
This is the section where I confront my most persistent weakness: rushing. I go too fast. I know this about myself, I have known it for years, and I still catch myself doing it.
I note whether I rushed the reveals. The moment of impossibility — when the card changes, when the prediction matches, when the object appears where it should not be — is the moment the entire routine has been building toward. It deserves time. It deserves space. It deserves a pause before and a pause after. I check whether I gave it those pauses or whether I blew through the reveal and started talking about the next thing.
I note whether I gave the audience time to react. This is related to rushing but distinct from it. Sometimes I do not rush the reveal itself, but I rush the beat after the reveal — the moment where the audience is supposed to process what just happened, turn to each other, gasp, laugh, or applaud. If I start speaking too soon after a reveal, I steal that moment from the audience. They needed three seconds. I gave them one.
I note whether the overall pace felt right or whether the show had a breathless quality. When I watch the recording later — if I recorded it — I almost always find that I was faster than I felt. But even before I watch the recording, I can usually sense whether I maintained the right pace or whether the adrenaline pulled me into overdrive.
How I Use the Checklist
The checklist is not a grade sheet. I am not giving myself a score and tracking my GPA over time. It is a diagnostic tool.
After completing it, I review the entries and identify the two or three most actionable observations. Not every weakness needs immediate attention. Some are recurring patterns that require long-term work. Some are one-time anomalies caused by an unusual venue or audience. The actionable observations are the ones that appear consistently and that I can address in my next rehearsal.
From those observations, I generate specific rehearsal objectives. Not “work on transitions” — that is too vague to be useful. Instead: “Write and memorize a specific line that bridges routine two into routine three, incorporating a callback to the opening.” Or: “Rehearse the mentalism reveal with a five-second hold before and a three-second hold after, until the pause feels natural.”
These objectives go into my rehearsal notes, and they become the focus of my next practice session. The loop is complete: performance generates data, data generates objectives, objectives guide rehearsal, rehearsal shapes the next performance.
What the Checklist Does Not Cover
There are things a checklist cannot capture. The overall feeling of connection with an audience. The spontaneous moment that was not in the script but worked perfectly. The energy in the room at the start versus the energy at the end. The intangible sense of whether the show was alive or mechanical.
These things matter. They matter enormously. But they are not what the checklist is for. The checklist is for the craft elements — the structural, technical, timing-related factors that are within my control and that respond to deliberate practice. The intangibles are built on top of the craft elements. When the craft is solid — when the transitions are clean, the build works, the pace is right, the reactions are landing — the intangibles take care of themselves. The connection happens naturally when the performer is not fighting mechanical problems.
The Discipline of Honesty
The hardest part of the checklist is not filling it out. It is filling it out honestly.
After a good show, the temptation is to check every box positively and move on. After a rough show, the temptation is to blame external factors — the room was wrong, the audience was cold, the sound system was bad. Both of these responses are natural and both are useless.
The checklist only works if the entries reflect what actually happened, not what I wanted to happen or what I think should have happened. This requires a kind of disciplined neutrality that does not come naturally to anyone who has just finished performing. You are emotionally charged. Your ego is either inflated or deflated. Neither state is conducive to honest assessment.
The format helps. Because the checklist asks specific questions about specific moments, it forces me to focus on observable facts rather than overall impressions. “Did the audience react with astonishment to the reveal in routine three?” is a question with an honest answer, even when I would prefer that answer to be different from what it is.
The Compound Effect
I have been using some version of this checklist for several years now. Looking back through the accumulated entries, I can see patterns that would have been invisible without the documentation. I can see that my transition weakness was at its worst during shows where I changed my set order — a consistent pattern that told me I needed to rehearse transitions for every possible set configuration, not just my default order. I can see that my rushing problem intensifies at events where I am performing for people in my professional network — the added social pressure accelerates my pace.
These patterns are the compound return on the investment of five minutes after each show. Individually, each checklist entry is a small thing. Collectively, they form a picture of my performing self that is more accurate, more detailed, and more useful than anything my memory or my feelings could provide.
The theatrical rehearsal process assumes that you review every element of a production systematically, stage by stage. I do not have a production team. I do not have a director sitting in the house. But I have a checklist, and the checklist gives me a structure for reviewing my own work with something approaching the rigor that a theatrical production demands.
Five minutes. Five sections. Honest answers.
It is not glamorous. But it works.