How to Make a Show With No Money

Let’s start here: outside of a classroom or a rehearsal room someone else is paying for, there’s no such thing as making a show with zero money. (And you probably paid to be there, too.)

But there is such a thing as making one with no upfront budget, no investors, no grants, and no rich relative quietly footing the bill.

And that’s usually what people mean.

If you’re Googling “how to make a show with no money,” you’re probably really asking one of these questions:

• How do I start if I don’t have cash on hand?
• How do I make something without asking other people for financial help?
• How do I stop waiting for permission, funding, or a sign from the universe that now is the right time to mount my show?

Cool. Let’s talk about that version of your project.

First: let’s redefine “no money”

When people say “no money,” they usually mean they don’t have savings set aside for their project. There’s no institutional support, no theatre company footing the bill, and no clear or immediate path to dinero/bread/cheddar/moolah/etc.

But what they do have is time, talent, and community. I get it. When you're staring at a big fat goose egg in your bank account, it can feel like your production is starting from absolutely nothing. But there's no such thing as starting from nothing, even if it sometimes feels that way. You can think of relationships, creativity, and the ability to trade favors, space, or energy like resources, the same way money is just one resource. And in the beginning, money isn’t even the most important one.

In low or no-budget theatre, the real currencies are time, labor, relationships, trust, emotional energy, and reputation.

If you don’t have cash, you’re asking people (collaborators, audience members, or otherwise) to bet on you for other, non-financial reasons. And since most people don’t get into theatre to make a killing, it’s probably not something to stress too much. A strong idea and a good vibe carry a lot of weight early on in a project.

In low or no-budget theatre, the real currencies are time, labor, relationships, trust, emotional energy, and reputation.

What scrappy actually looks like

After doing this professionally for close to 15 years, I’ve started to notice some patterns in my own work and among fellow indie producers. Successful scrappy shows tend to share a few things:

The scale is aggressively contained.

That usually means a shorter runtime, a small cast, minimal tech, and a more go-with-the-flow creative process. The show is often built around a single location or an out-of-the-box scenic idea that doesn’t require a lot of physical stuff.

The venue is unconventional (or borrowed)

That might look like a black box theatre with a door deal, where ticket sales are split instead of paying rent up front. It could be a rehearsal space turned performance space, a backyard, a living room, a gallery, or a bar on a slow night. Fringe venues and friend-of-a-friend setups can also be huge early on in a show’s development.

The team is tiny and multi-hyphenate

Everyone is doing at least two jobs. Sometimes three. Probably too many. This can work in the short term, as long as everyone is on board and clear about what they’re signing up for.

The show is designed around what you already have (Not what you wish you had. Sorry.)

You don’t design a chandelier drop if you don’t know a chandelier guy. Instead, you work backward from your existing strengths. Do you have access to period costume stock? Does your grandma have a garage full of antiques? Is your best friend a genius playwright? Is your best friend a chandelier??

While creative vision is usually what drives a show, it’s also worth approaching producing from the other direction too. Sometimes the most producible show is the one that fits the resources you already have.

Sometimes the most producible show is the one that fits the resources you already have.

Other tips for producing in the indie trenches

So if that’s what scrappy actually looks like in practice, here are a handful of ways to keep a no-budget show from turning into a full-on time and energy sink:

Keep the time commitment contained.

Schedule a clear start date and an end date. When money isn’t the limiting factor, time becomes the thing that quietly expands. A defined window keeps the scope from creeping and protects everyone’s sanity.

Ticket pre-sales can create light cash flow.

Even a small number of early ticket sales can help cover basic costs or offer modest stipends to your team.

Consider backend deals with collaborators.

If no one is getting paid upfront, talk through how money would be shared if and when it comes in. Backend deals are still risky if you don’t have a guaranteed audience, but they can align expectations and add additional incentive for people to show up and do their best work (“if the show succeeds, we all succeed”).

Ask a few friends or family members for small contributions.

You don’t always need to do a full-blown raise or a crowdfunding campaign. You’d be surprised how many people will throw in twenty bucks just because they like you and want to support the thing you’re making. $20 = an hour of rehearsal space or three happy hour beers while you and your creative team talk through notes.

Design the tech intentionally.

Fewer cues. Fewer operators. Less gear. Build the show around what can reliably run with minimal tech support instead of trying to fake a bigger production than you actually have. At the end of the day, the creativity on stage (the story, the performances, and the heart of the thing) is the stuff people are showing up for. The design and world-building are important, but it's okay to save some of that theatrical magic for the next version of the show.

This is how a lot of shows actually start

Many working theatre artists began (and still begin) with zero-budget workshops, self-produced readings, or one person comedy shows in tough rooms. While it’s now a priority for me to pay people from the start on my projects, I’ve been there too, trying to figure out how to make something work with basically no money.

My first sketch show in Los Angeles in 2014 was one of the first times I'd been part of renting a theatre space, and we structured the whole thing so ticket sales would cover the venue cost plus a small stipend for the actors. No one on the creative team paid themselves, and aside from a few props and costume pieces (most of which the cast already had), we didn’t have to raise money or spend much out of pocket. Because we didn’t really put any money down, I’d call that “no money” in practice.

The venue just took their share off the top and gave us the rest. I remember literally shooing people out of the lobby after the show because I was worried any time overage was going to bankrupt me and my producing partners.

But creatively, it was a blast. And on the producing side, it was a great intro into all the stuff that makes your eyes glaze over when you’re new to producing (contracts, insurance, logistics, etc). That show didn’t make money, but it helped lay a foundation for every project I've produced since.

To be honest, shows like this rarely make money (unless you’re somehow getting people to pay top dollar for a one-person show with zero tech), but they do create other kinds of value, like:

• lifelong collaborators
• creative reps of the piece you’re working on
• the development of new skills
• a proof of concept for your next “funded” production
• good/bad/crazy stories

Most importantly, they create momentum. And momentum is often what eventually unlocks future money. This might just be the first version of your show, and as you remount it, you can get closer and closer to the version that’s in your head.