Every performer knows the feeling: you’re mid-show, things are going great, and suddenly you’re reminded of a “brilliant” variation for the trick. (Note to self: changing an effect mid-stream is almost always a disaster—don’t do it!) Later, you’re frantically digging through emails, napkins, and phone notes trying to find where you wrote it down.
Or you have the opposite problem: you’ve got a system so perfect it would make a librarian weep. Color-coded notebooks. Digital folders inside of folders. It’s so neat that you never actually look at it. Your notes haven’t been organized; they’ve been entombed!
The real challenge for us mystery performers isn’t a lack of a system—it’s that most systems were designed by accountant-types. They’re great for tracking inventory or filing taxes, but they don’t understand how a creative brain actually works. A magic effect isn’t a linear task to check off. Your notes are seeds—and if you bury them too deep in a “perfect” system, they’ll never see the sun.
The Problem with “Invisible” Organization
We’ve all met the guy: meticulous, systematic, everything in its place. His notes are immaculate. Every trick is cataloged. And yet, his act is exactly the same as it was in 1994. He has all the information, but zero “creative collisions.”
When you file a trick away under “Card Tricks, Impromptu, Self-Working,” you’ve solved a filing problem, but you’ve killed the inspiration. Six months from now, when you’re building a new 20-minute set, are you really going to go hunting through that digital graveyard? Probably not. You’ll just grab what’s off the top of your head.
A trick isn’t a finished product you freeze in amber. It evolves. You perform it, notice where the audience leaned in (or where they started checking their watches), and you tweak it. Your notes need to capture that evolution.
Sidebar: Notice that “P” word? Perform. No matter how good your imagination is, the only way to get an effect to the pinnacle is to get it out in front of an actual audience. More than once. (He said, repeating himself for emphasis.)
Organizing for the Real World (Not the Filing Cabinet)
The shift that changed everything for me was simple: Stop organizing by what the trick is, and start organizing by when you’ll actually use it.
Most performers think in categories. Card tricks here. Mentalism there. Coin work in the “I’ll get to this someday” bin. But when you’re booked for a gig, you aren’t thinking in categories. You’re thinking about context. You need ten minutes for a corporate cocktail hour or a five-minute opener for a skeptical crowd.
So, organize that way instead. Try folders like:
- “Close-Up Parlor Work”
- “The 10-Minute Corporate Set”
- “Impromptu” (For when they find out you’re a magician at dinner)
Now, when you need to build a show, you open the folder that matches your performing life. Everything in there is immediately relevant. It sparks ideas because you’re seeing the material the way you actually use it.
The Three-Layer Method
Layer 1: The Working Notebook (The Messy Room)
This is where the magic lives, and it will often be a disaster. New tricks you’re learning, a punchline that hit during a show, a half-baked variation—this is the “creative soup.”
- The Rule: Don’t organize this layer. At all. If you start filing while you’re in the “dreaming” phase, you kill the flow. This is like the first draft of a novel; don’t edit the last fourteen paragraphs, just get it down. Use a physical notebook or a notes app—whatever is the path of least resistance.
Layer 2: The Reference System (The Active Roster)
Once an idea has proven it’s worth—meaning you’ve performed it and it didn’t tank—it moves here. This is your “Active Library.” This is where those context folders live.
- The Goal: Scannability. You don’t need the full history of the effect. You need the “prompt.” Core method, key patter hooks, and maybe a note about that one mistake you keep making. Just enough so you can pick it back up after a month away and not look like an amateur.
Layer 3: The Archive (The “Not For Now” Bin)
This is where ideas go to rest (but not to die). Tricks you don’t do anymore, scripts that don’t fit your current persona, or half-developed thoughts that just aren’t “there” yet.
- The Secret: It’s not a graveyard; it’s a library. I’m a big fan of the “quarterly review.” Every few months, flip through the archive. You’ll be amazed how an old idea from three years ago suddenly “collides” with something you’re working on now.
A Final Thought on Spontaneity
I’ve been a wanna-be musician my whole life, and I’ve learned one thing from the jazz world: you have to know your scales before you can improvise.
Structure isn’t the enemy of spontaneity; it’s the foundation. When your notes are solid, your brain is free. You aren’t worried about forgetting the method, so you can actually be with your audience. You can riff, you can deviate, and you can handle that one heckler—because you know exactly where the “rails” are if you need to jump back on.
(I’m a big fan of scripting, but remember: we aren’t actors in a play. We have to leave the script to deal with the humans in the front row, then jump back in without missing a beat. It’s a harder job. Own it.)
Now, go find those scraps of paper. Organize the notes. And then, go perform something.
