Before I ever stepped onto a theater stage or helped shape a production from behind the scenes, I found myself in a tiny radio booth at Emerson College in Boston, staring nervously into a microphone. I was a student with a love for storytelling, music, and performance. The college radio station seemed like a natural fit—but I had no idea how much it would influence the way I approach my work even now, years later, as a producer.

There’s something powerful about radio. It’s immediate, it’s intimate, and, most importantly, it’s all about listening. Not just to sound levels or music transitions, but to people—their stories, emotions, and silences. I didn’t fully grasp it at the time, but those hours spent behind the mic gave me more than just broadcasting experience. They taught me how to tune in, not just to what’s being said, but to what’s not. That lesson has stuck with me across every chapter of my creative life.

The Importance of Quiet

When you’re on the air, dead air is considered a cardinal sin. You’re trained to keep things moving, to fill the space, to make sure listeners don’t drift away. But something funny happens when you embrace a little quiet. You start to hear more. You pay closer attention.

There were moments when I’d cue up a song or pause after a call-in segment, and that tiny break—just a breath—would somehow carry more weight than the words before it. I learned that silence wasn’t always empty. Sometimes it gave the story room to settle. Sometimes it made people lean in.

As a producer, I think about this often. There’s a temptation in theater and entertainment to fill every beat with movement, music, or dialogue. But silence, used well, can be just as impactful. It gives the audience space to connect. And it gives the artists space to breathe.

Learning to Listen, Really Listen

Hosting a radio show meant I wasn’t just talking—I was also receiving. Callers, co-hosts, guests—they all had their own stories, ideas, and points of view. My job wasn’t just to keep the conversation going. It was to make people feel heard.

That skill, though it seems simple, has become one of the most valuable tools I have as a producer. Listening isn’t passive. It’s active. It means putting your ego aside, being curious, and staying present. It means asking better questions and being okay with not having all the answers.

In radio, if you’re too focused on your next line, you miss what’s being said in the moment. The same is true in theater. If I’m not really listening to the people I collaborate with—from the director to the stage manager to the actors—I’m missing the best part of the process: the discovery that comes from truly engaging with others.

The Magic of Improvisation

College radio, especially at a station like Emerson’s, wasn’t always polished. We were students. We made mistakes. Sometimes songs wouldn’t load. Sometimes equipment failed. Sometimes we’d forget what we were supposed to say.

In those moments, I learned how to improvise—not just to save face, but to find new opportunities. Improvisation isn’t just about being quick on your feet. It’s about trusting your instincts and adapting when things don’t go as planned.

That same flexibility is something I rely on constantly as a producer. No production ever goes exactly according to plan. You prepare, you plan, and then something changes. The ability to adjust while staying connected to the core story or purpose is essential. Radio helped train that muscle in me early on.

Creating Connection Through Story

One of my favorite parts of hosting was curating music and stories that made people feel something. I loved the idea that someone out there—someone I didn’t know—was tuning in and feeling a little more seen or understood because of what they heard.

Now, as a producer, I see storytelling on a bigger canvas, but the goal is the same: connection. Whether it’s an emotional scene, a laugh-out-loud moment, or a quiet beat of reflection, I want audiences to feel something real.

Radio taught me that even when you can’t see your audience, you’re speaking to someone. That voice on the other end is real. That connection matters. It’s a principle I carry with me into every rehearsal room and production meeting.

A Foundation That Still Shapes Me

Looking back, I can see how much that radio booth shaped the producer I’ve become. It gave me the tools to listen closely, adapt quickly, and lead with empathy. It helped me understand the power of voice—not just in speaking, but in listening. And it reminded me that the most lasting impact often comes not from the loudest performance, but from the quietest moment that hits home.

Today, when I’m deep in the world of scripts, schedules, and stage lights, I often think back to those late nights at the mic. A young kid with headphones on, telling stories to whoever was out there listening. It turns out, that kid was learning everything he’d need to know about producing—one broadcast at a time.

The post Radio Roots: What College Broadcasting Taught Me About Listening appeared first on James Simon.

When I first stepped into the world of theater producing, I had no idea what kind of journey I was starting. I was coming from a background in performance and music, with a solid foundation in radio and independent film work. But producing? That was a whole new world—one that required a mix of creative vision, business sense, stamina, and a strong stomach for the unknown.

What I’ve learned over the years is that theater producing isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon. It’s not just about getting one show off the ground or landing a moment of success. It’s about consistency, about relationships, and about weathering both the thrilling highs and the inevitable setbacks. You learn, slowly but surely, how to play the long game.

Patience Is a Producer’s Best Tool

It took me a while to understand that progress in this field often comes in quiet, incremental steps. There’s a lot of waiting in producing—waiting on funding, waiting on schedules, waiting on decisions that aren’t always yours to make. It’s easy, especially early on, to feel like things should be moving faster.

But over time, I’ve learned that patience isn’t just necessary—it’s powerful. Some of the most meaningful projects I’ve been a part of didn’t come together overnight. They took years of nurturing, shaping, and refining. Sometimes they started as offhand conversations over coffee, or as small workshops with no guarantee of where they’d go. Staying committed through that process, even when there’s no clear finish line in sight, is what separates a moment of excitement from a lasting career.

Building Relationships That Last

In an industry as collaborative as theater, the relationships you build are just as important as the work you produce. I’m not just talking about networking in the traditional sense. I mean building real, human connections—with writers, directors, actors, designers, stage managers, and fellow producers. These are the people you’ll return to again and again. They’re the ones who call you not just because you can get something made, but because they trust your taste, your integrity, and your ability to see a project through.

That trust takes time. It doesn’t come from one successful production or a flashy resume. It comes from showing up, again and again, and being someone people can count on. As James Simon, producer, I’ve tried to make that consistency my calling card. I’m not chasing trends or the next big thing. I’m focused on building relationships that endure and stories that matter.

Weathering the Tough Seasons

Let’s be honest—this isn’t always an easy path. There are seasons when it feels like everything is clicking, and then there are times when nothing goes the way you planned. A show falls through, funding dries up, or an idea that once felt unstoppable hits a wall.

The truth is, sustainability in this career means being able to endure those moments without letting them define you. It means understanding that failure is part of the process—not a stopping point, but a teacher. Every time something doesn’t go as planned, there’s an opportunity to learn, to adjust, and to move forward a little bit wiser.

Over the years, I’ve come to respect those tougher seasons. They teach you to be resourceful. They sharpen your instincts. And, maybe most importantly, they remind you why you started doing this in the first place.

Staying Curious and Open

Longevity in theater producing also means staying curious. The industry changes. Audiences change. What excited you ten years ago might not be what excites you now. And that’s okay. The trick is to stay open—to new voices, new forms, new ways of working.

One of the best parts of this work is that it constantly introduces me to people with fresh ideas. I love being around emerging artists who see the world differently than I do. They challenge me. They energize me. And they help keep the work dynamic and relevant.

If you’re in this for the long haul, you have to keep evolving. You have to be willing to adapt without losing your center. That’s how you build a career that doesn’t just last, but continues to grow.

Why I Still Love This Work

After all these years, I still get excited about the process. The first reading of a new piece. The energy in the room during a run-through. The way an audience leans in when a moment lands just right. That feeling doesn’t go away.

But even beyond the stage, what keeps me going is the belief that theater matters. That stories matter. That bringing people together in a room—laughing, crying, connecting—is still one of the most meaningful things we can do.

The road hasn’t always been easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Playing the long game means I get to be part of something bigger than myself. It means building a body of work I can be proud of and helping create space for others to do the same.

That’s the kind of legacy I’m aiming for. And I’m just getting started.

The post The Long Game: Building a Sustainable Career in Theater Producing appeared first on James Simon.

When I look back at my early days in theater, I’m struck by how much of my journey was shaped by people who took the time to believe in me. I grew up in a musical family, so the arts were always around, but finding my way into the professional world of theater wasn’t as clear-cut. Like many people in this business, I started by saying yes to anything I could get my hands on—school plays, local gigs, independent projects—and hoping someone would notice. The truth is, a few people did. And those early acts of encouragement, guidance, and support made all the difference.

Now, after years of working in theater as a producer, I’ve come to understand the responsibility that comes with experience. You reach a point where it’s no longer just about the next show or the next opportunity for yourself—it becomes about the legacy you’re building and the doors you’re holding open for others. That’s why mentorship has become such an important part of how I define my role in the arts.

More Than Advice

People sometimes think mentorship is about giving advice—and yes, there’s some of that. But real mentorship, the kind that lasts, is about more than just sharing tips or answering questions. It’s about showing up. It’s about listening. It’s about helping someone see themselves in a future they may not have fully imagined yet.

There’s a moment I think every young artist or theater professional has—when they look around and wonder if there’s truly space for them in the industry. That uncertainty can be overwhelming, especially for people who don’t come from traditional pipelines or who haven’t seen people like themselves in positions of leadership. Mentorship is one way we push back against that doubt. It’s how we help people realize that they belong, that their voice matters, and that there’s a path forward for them.

Access Is Everything

Of course, mentorship can only go so far without access. I’ve learned that while personal support is crucial, structural support is just as important. The arts can sometimes feel like a closed circle—like you need to know the right people, or have the right pedigree, to make it in. That’s not the way it should be.

I’ve always believed that talent exists everywhere, but opportunity doesn’t. Part of my job, and the job of anyone in a position of influence, is to help create those opportunities. That means partnering with organizations that serve emerging artists. It means supporting outreach programs that bring theater education to schools and communities that have historically been left out. And it means being intentional about who we include in our rooms and who we invite into conversations.

Learning Goes Both Ways

One of the most surprising things I’ve learned as a mentor is how much I get out of the experience, too. Working with younger or newer professionals reminds me of why I got into this business in the first place. Their ideas are fresh, their energy is infectious, and their vision for what theater can be often challenges me to think differently.

Mentorship isn’t just about passing knowledge down—it’s also about staying open to what the next generation brings to the table. Every conversation I have with an aspiring producer or artist helps me grow as well. They see the world through a different lens, shaped by experiences that are often very different from mine. And that exchange of perspectives makes the work richer for everyone.

Creating a Culture of Support

If we want theater to remain a vital, relevant, and inclusive art form, we have to be intentional about how we nurture its future. That means more than just focusing on the next production—it means creating a culture where emerging artists feel supported, seen, and empowered to take risks.

I’ve been lucky to be part of companies and communities that value mentorship and professional development, and I try to carry that spirit into every project I work on. Whether it’s offering guidance on a budget, helping someone workshop an idea, or just being available to talk through a challenge, I see mentorship as an ongoing practice—not a one-time gesture.

Why It Matters

At the end of the day, producing theater is about people. Yes, there are scripts, schedules, budgets, and logistics. But none of it happens without people who care deeply, who collaborate generously, and who believe in the power of storytelling. Mentorship is how we build more of those people. It’s how we ensure that the values we hold—creativity, empathy, curiosity—get passed along.

James Simon, producer, is just one chapter in the larger story of theater. My hope is that the artists and producers I’ve had the chance to mentor will go on to write their own chapters—ones that are bold, compassionate, and uniquely their own. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll turn around and mentor someone else along the way.

That’s how the cycle continues. That’s how we keep the heart of this work alive.

The post Investing in the Future: Why Mentorship in the Arts Matters appeared first on James Simon.

There’s something to be said for sticking with something. In a world that rewards speed, trends, and short attention spans, staying committed to anything over the long haul feels almost radical. But for me, the arts have never been a phase or a side interest—they’ve been the throughline of my life. From childhood to now, every stage of my journey has been shaped, inspired, and supported by a deep relationship with performance and creativity. And what I’ve learned along the way is that staying in the arts isn’t just about loving them—it’s about learning how to grow with them.

I was lucky to grow up in a house where music and performance were everywhere. My family didn’t treat the arts like something separate from “real life.” Music played constantly. We’d go to concerts, talk about theater, and celebrate creativity in everyday moments. I started acting in school plays when I was five, and around the same time, I picked up the drums. That was the beginning. Not just of hobbies, but of a mindset—one that saw expression, rhythm, and storytelling as natural parts of being alive.

Early Lessons That Still Matter

Those early experiences weren’t about career plans. They were about joy. There’s a kind of unfiltered excitement that comes from being on stage as a kid or pounding away on a drum set in the basement. It wasn’t about being great—it was about the feeling of doing something that connected me to others. That feeling has stayed with me. Even now, when I’m working through the logistics of a production or navigating complicated decisions, I try to return to that core feeling. It’s the anchor that reminds me why I’m doing this.

College and the Power of Radio

When I got to college, I found a new layer to my relationship with the arts. At Emerson in Boston, I discovered the college radio station and quickly became a regular voice on the air. It was a different kind of performance—less about being seen and more about being heard. Hosting on the radio taught me how to communicate clearly, how to consider the audience even when I couldn’t see them, and how to shape an experience in real time. These were lessons I didn’t realize would come in handy later, but they absolutely have.

Finding My Role as a Producer

What I’ve learned over the years is that a life in the arts isn’t linear. It doesn’t follow a single path or fit a single job title. I’ve been an actor, a musician, a radio host, and eventually, a producer. Each role required something different from me, and each helped me develop a new skill or perspective. Producing wasn’t on my radar when I was younger, but once I found it, it felt like a natural progression—like all those past experiences were leading me here.

Producing, as I see it, is about building the environment where art can happen. It’s about supporting the creative process, understanding the audience, and making sure all the moving parts come together. That takes patience. It takes long-term thinking. And it definitely takes a thick skin. But more than anything, it takes a love for the work itself—a love that can weather the slow times, the challenges, and the moments when things don’t go according to plan.

Staying Committed Over the Long Haul

There’s a misconception that being involved in the arts means constantly chasing inspiration or being swept up in drama. In reality, staying connected to the arts for decades means learning how to keep going when the spark dims. It means trusting that the spark will come back. It means continuing to show up, to stay open, to keep learning. I’ve had times where I questioned what I was doing, times when projects didn’t come together the way I’d hoped, and times when I needed to step back and reconnect with what matters. But I’ve never wanted to walk away. The arts have always found a way to call me back.

Perspective With Time

What I value most now is the perspective that comes with time. I can look back at the early days of my journey—the school plays, the drum practice, the late nights at the radio station—and see how they shaped me. I can also look ahead with a sense of purpose. Producing is not just about putting on shows. It’s about supporting stories that need to be told, voices that need to be heard, and moments that bring people together. That’s work I feel proud of. That’s work I want to keep doing.

Growing With the Work

Nurturing a lifelong relationship with the arts means making space for change. The way I engage with creativity now is different than it was twenty years ago, and it will keep evolving. That’s part of the beauty of it. The arts are alive, and if we stay curious and committed, they grow with us. My role may shift over time, but my connection to the work remains steady.

I still get excited when the house lights dim and the show is about to begin. I still feel that old thrill when a story lands, when a performance clicks, when an audience leans in. And I still feel incredibly lucky to be part of something that has been with me since the beginning.

This is the long game. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The post The Long Game: Nurturing a Lifelong Relationship With the Arts appeared first on James Simon.

It Always Starts with the Story

At the heart of every decision is the story. I need to feel something when I first read or hear a piece. I’m not talking about whether it makes me laugh or cry, although that’s a good start. I’m talking about a sense of connection, a spark that tells me there’s something here worth exploring. A good story reveals something truthful—about people, about relationships, about the world we live in. I’m drawn to projects that challenge me, surprise me, or open a door to a perspective I hadn’t considered before.

But it’s not just about the message. It’s also about how the story is told. Is the structure interesting? Does the language sing? Is there a rhythm to the dialogue, or a boldness in the way the narrative unfolds? A compelling story on the page needs to have the potential to become something vibrant and alive on stage. I always try to imagine the audience in their seats—what are they going to feel when the lights go down and the first line is spoken?

Voice Matters

Another thing I look for is voice. The writer’s voice, the director’s voice, even the creative team’s shared voice. There has to be something distinctive about the way the material is approached. I want to feel like I’m in the hands of someone who has a point of view—who has something they need to say, and who says it with clarity, courage, and creativity. Whether it’s a new writer or someone more established, that sense of urgency and individuality is something I value deeply.

Sometimes, the voice is subtle. Other times, it’s loud and raw. Either way, I want to feel that the people behind the project believe in it with their whole hearts. I’ve learned to trust that kind of passion—it often leads to the most compelling, surprising, and satisfying work.

Collaboration Is Everything

Once I’m hooked by the material, the next thing I consider is the people. Theater is collaborative by nature. No one builds a production alone. I think carefully about who is involved, what they bring to the table, and how we might work together. For me, the creative team isn’t just a group of talented individuals—it’s a unit, a family, a shared brain. When the chemistry is right, the work soars.

I look for people who are open, curious, and generous with their ideas. People who are willing to take risks, to listen, to adapt. Ego doesn’t interest me—collaboration does. I want to be in rooms where we can challenge each other, push the material, and stay focused on the work. I’ve found that the best productions come from teams who trust one another and are united by a shared sense of purpose.

The Intangible Pull

There’s also an element to this process that’s harder to define. Sometimes, a project just pulls at me. Maybe it’s the timing—maybe the world needs this story right now. Maybe it reminds me of something I’ve felt, or shines a light on something I’ve never seen. Sometimes it’s personal. Sometimes it’s political. But the pull is real, and I’ve learned not to ignore it.

I think every producer has their own version of this—a kind of inner compass. For me, it’s not about chasing trends or trying to predict what will sell. It’s about following the feeling that something matters, that it has the potential to resonate, to move people, to spark conversation. And if I can feel that, there’s a good chance an audience will too.

Balancing Instinct with Practicality

Of course, instinct alone isn’t enough. Part of the job is balancing that emotional pull with a practical lens. Can we make this happen? Will the resources be there? Can we find the right cast, the right space, the right moment? These are questions I take seriously, but they don’t dictate my choices. They help me prepare, not decide. If a project speaks loudly enough, I’ll find a way to make it work.

That said, timing does matter. There are wonderful scripts I’ve passed on—not because they weren’t worthy, but because it just wasn’t the right moment. And there are projects I’ve pursued for years before the pieces finally fell into place. Sometimes the producer’s job is knowing when to wait, and when to jump.

Why I Keep Saying Yes

When I find a project that checks all the boxes—the story, the voice, the team, the timing—it’s an easy yes. Those are the moments I live for as a producer. They remind me why I got into this work in the first place. It’s about creating something meaningful, about bringing people together to share an experience that can entertain, challenge, inspire, or change them in some small way.

At the end of the day, producing is about believing. Believing in the people. Believing in the process. Believing in the story, even when the path is uncertain. When I look for a new project, I’m really looking for a reason to believe again—and a reason to bring something beautiful into the world.

The post The Producer’s Eye: What I Look for in a New Project appeared first on James Simon.

In many ways, producing is like building a house. The financing is just the foundation. It’s necessary, but it’s not the full structure. There’s a blueprint to follow, a team of specialists to manage, and countless creative decisions to make along the way. The house doesn’t just get built because someone paid for the materials. It takes planning, intention, and taste to bring the design to life. That’s exactly how I see my role in theater.

The Art of Choosing Projects

One of the most creative parts of producing is simply deciding what to produce. It’s not just about reading scripts and thinking, “Will this sell?” It’s about responding emotionally, intellectually, and artistically to a piece of material. I ask myself: Does this move me? Is this story worth telling now? Is there a unique voice behind it? Will it resonate with audiences—not just today, but down the line?

These early decisions set the tone for everything that follows. Choosing a project is often a gut feeling. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, but I also surround myself with smart, creative people who challenge me and help me see things from different angles. Producing isn’t a solo sport—it’s a team effort from day one. When I find a story that speaks to me, I start thinking about how to build the right team around it. That’s where the creative puzzle really begins.

Assembling the Team

Casting, directors, designers, composers, choreographers—every person on a production contributes to the creative vision. As a producer, I play a part in bringing that team together. That means knowing who’s right for the story, who will work well together, and who can elevate the material. Sometimes it’s about taking a chance on someone new, other times it’s about calling someone I’ve worked with before and trust completely.

There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing a group of artists connect and push each other to do their best work. But getting to that point takes more than logistics—it takes insight. It means asking the right questions: How do we want this story to feel? What perspective are we bringing to it? What kind of world are we trying to create? Producers help frame those questions and keep the answers aligned as the production takes shape.

Being the Guardian of the Vision

Once rehearsals begin and the pieces start coming together, my job shifts into another gear. I become a sounding board, a problem-solver, a motivator, and sometimes, a quiet observer. One of the most important things a producer can do is protect the integrity of the production’s vision. That doesn’t mean controlling it—but rather ensuring that everyone has the space and support they need to do their best work. It means keeping the big picture in mind, especially when the process gets stressful or complicated (and it always does).

It’s easy for people to assume that producers are just there to sign off on budgets or approve marketing plans, but we’re also the ones helping shape the audience’s first impression of a show. From the way the set looks when the curtain rises, to how the production is presented in the press, to what kind of conversations it sparks after the lights come up—every part of that experience matters. And it all flows from the choices we make early on.

Creative Problem Solving

Producing also demands constant creative problem solving. Things go wrong. Budgets shift. A cast member gets sick. A design doesn’t work the way we thought it would. The best producers don’t panic when that happens—they adapt. And often, the solutions require creativity, not just practicality. I’ve had to think on my feet more times than I can count, and often those quick decisions end up improving the show. Sometimes the limitations push us to be more inventive. That’s the beauty of theater—it’s alive. And when you embrace that, you open the door to real artistry.

Staying Passionate

At the end of the day, what keeps me doing this work is my passion for storytelling. Theater is one of the most human forms of expression we have. It brings people together in a shared space, to experience something fleeting but powerful. As a producer, I get to help bring those moments into the world. And yes, it’s a business. Yes, we have to think about ticket sales and contracts and opening nights. But none of that matters without the art. The stories, the performances, the magic that happens when the lights go down—that’s what it’s all about.

Producing theater is a creative act. It requires vision, taste, courage, and heart. And while the money matters, it’s never the whole story. The real joy of this work is in shaping something beautiful, meaningful, and unforgettable—and then sharing it with an audience. That’s the part I live for.

The post Why Theater Producing is More Than Just Raising Money: A Look at the Creative Side appeared first on James Simon.

Throughout my career, I’ve worked on productions that originated in one country and then found their way to another, requiring careful adjustments to suit new audiences. These experiences have taught me a lot about the nuances of producing theater across different cultures and regions.

Understanding Different Audiences

One of the most significant lessons I’ve learned in producing international theater is that audience expectations can vary greatly. In some theater markets, audiences have a certain reverence for tradition, engaging with performances in a way that reflects a deep appreciation for subtlety and nuance. In others, audiences are known for their enthusiasm, their love for spectacle, and their expectation of a more immersive, high-energy experience.

When taking a production from one country to another, these cultural differences must be carefully considered. Humor, tone, and pacing may need to be adjusted to ensure the material resonates with a new audience. What might work perfectly in one theater culture could require tweaks in another. The challenge is finding that balance—keeping the essence of the production intact while making sure it connects with a different demographic in a meaningful way.

The Logistics of Producing Internationally

Logistically speaking, producing theater in different regions often means navigating distinct budgeting structures, union regulations, and production timelines. Some cities have strong government support for the arts, providing funding that allows for more creative risks. Others rely heavily on private investors, creating a system where commercial viability is a major driving force in decision-making.

Understanding these financial structures is crucial when working on an international production. Managing the budget often involves different sets of expectations, especially when balancing the need for creative expression with financial sustainability. The pressures associated with recouping investments, securing venues, and coordinating with production teams in multiple locations require careful planning and adaptability.

Collaborating Across Borders

Another aspect of international producing that I’ve come to appreciate is the opportunity to collaborate with artists and creatives from different backgrounds. When working on a show that crosses borders, there’s a richness to the creative process that comes from diverse perspectives. Collaborating with directors, designers, and actors from different theater cultures has given me a chance to see how the creative process varies from one region to another.

In some theater communities, rehearsals tend to be more structured, with an emphasis on extensive preparation before stepping onto the stage. In others, there is a faster-paced, more improvisational approach that focuses on the energy of live performance. Learning to adapt to different working styles and respecting the traditions of each theater culture has been a key part of my journey as a producer.

What I love about producing in different cities is that it forces you to evolve. You can’t simply apply the same model to every project—you have to embrace the uniqueness of each theater community and adjust accordingly. It’s a humbling experience, but also one that continually pushes you to grow in the field.

The Impact of Cultural Interpretation

One of the most rewarding aspects of producing international theater is seeing how different audiences respond to the same story. There’s something special about watching a production evolve in different cultural contexts. I’ve had the opportunity to experience audiences’ reactions in multiple theater markets, and it’s always interesting to see how they engage with the same material in unique ways.

For example, themes that resonate deeply with one audience might not have the same emotional weight for another. The storytelling techniques that work in one country may need to be adjusted slightly for a different cultural perspective. This process of adaptation is fascinating because it shows how universal yet deeply personal theater can be.

The Global Theater Landscape

Producing international theater has been one of the most rewarding aspects of my career. The lessons I’ve learned from navigating the cultural and logistical differences between different theater markets have not only made me a better producer but have also broadened my understanding of how powerful theater can be in bringing people together, no matter where they’re from.

Each market has its own unique set of challenges, but they also offer unparalleled opportunities to create something truly special. The ability to bring a show from one city to another and watch it evolve in new and exciting ways is a privilege that not many get to experience. And for me, that’s what makes the journey of producing international theater so worthwhile.

The post Producing International Theater: Lessons Learned from One Stage to Another appeared first on James Simon.

A Passion for Performance

Like many in the theater community, my love for performance started early. From childhood, I was involved in school productions, developing a passion for both acting and music. Whether it was playing an instrument or taking the stage, theater became an essential creative outlet for me, and I knew that I wanted to dedicate my life to the arts.

During my college years, I fully immersed myself in performance studies and was surrounded by like-minded individuals who shared my enthusiasm. I also explored other creative avenues, which helped broaden my understanding of the entertainment industry. Acting was my primary focus, and I imagined it would be my lifelong path.

After college, I moved to a major city with big aspirations of becoming a professional actor. I worked in independent productions, stage performances, and even made appearances in media projects. While I loved performing, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I began to wonder if there were other ways I could contribute to the theater world beyond being on stage.

Recognizing the Need for Change

The decision to shift careers was not an easy one. I had invested years into building my identity as a performer, and stepping away felt like abandoning a dream. However, I found myself increasingly drawn to the production side of theater. I realized that I was fascinated by the process of bringing a performance to life—the logistics, collaboration with creative teams, and the journey from concept to execution.

A defining moment came when I worked on a project that involved both performing and producing. I discovered that I was more energized by the behind-the-scenes work than by being in the spotlight. That realization pushed me to explore the possibility of transitioning fully into production.

The shift was gradual and required significant learning. I had to educate myself on the business aspects of theater, including budgeting, fundraising, contract negotiations, and working with stakeholders. At the same time, my background as a performer proved invaluable—I understood the creative process and could effectively communicate with directors, designers, and cast members. My experience on stage gave me insight into the needs of a production in a way that benefited my work as a producer.

The Challenges of Transitioning

Moving from performer to producer came with its own set of difficulties. For one, I had to adjust to a completely different role in the industry. As a performer, I was used to interpreting stories for an audience; as a producer, I was now responsible for managing budgets, coordinating marketing efforts, and overseeing all logistical aspects of a show. This shift required a new mindset and skill set, and there were moments of uncertainty.

Navigating the complexities of producing also presented challenges. Theaters operate with many moving parts, and there is a delicate balance between maintaining artistic integrity and ensuring financial sustainability. As a producer, I had to think about ticket sales, investor relations, and promotional strategies, all while protecting the creative vision of the production.

One of the biggest hurdles was establishing credibility in this new role. Moving from an actor to a producer meant proving myself in an entirely different capacity. At times, I doubted whether I would be taken seriously. However, over time, I built a reputation and earned the trust of industry professionals. The relationships I had formed as a performer played a crucial role in this transition—many of my past colleagues became collaborators on the production side, and their support was invaluable.

The Rewards of Producing

Despite the challenges, the rewards of producing have far exceeded the difficulties. One of the most fulfilling aspects of this role is the ability to bring creative visions to life. Unlike performing, where my contribution was limited to a specific role, producing allows me to be involved in every stage of a show’s development. I collaborate with directors, writers, designers, and performers to shape a production from its inception to its final execution. Watching a concept evolve into a fully realized performance is incredibly satisfying.

Another significant reward is the broader impact I can have on the theater community. Producing has given me the opportunity to support and champion projects that resonate with audiences. Being part of the creative process in a more holistic way has allowed me to contribute meaningfully to the storytelling and artistic direction of productions.

Perhaps most importantly, I remain deeply connected to the world of theater. While my role has changed, my passion for the arts is as strong as ever—it has simply taken a new form. Transitioning from performer to producer was not a straightforward path, but it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The challenges pushed me to grow, and the rewards have been more fulfilling than I could have imagined.

My journey has taught me that career paths are rarely linear, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth pursuing. Sometimes, the most unexpected turns lead to the most gratifying destinations.

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