Two bits of wisdom I’ve learned from dad:
Not everyone’s going to like you. (And wow, how true this turned out to be. I’ve internalized this and I know it’s the reason I’m willing to take risks and be cringe because I took this as fact. Thanks dad!) - But this is not what this post is about. This is about the other thing he said:
You never know how good you are until you do it somewhere else.
Lately I’ve been trying to do my craft, you know, the craft of getting up on stage and telling people things that happened in my life, at other places, in more creative ways. Or I guess more accurately, I’ve been thinking about doing this. I mean sure, I am physically doing this, but I am only scratching the surface on what I’m capable of.
Most of this year I have prayed (use whatever definition of this word works for you) for the insatiable hunger and drive that consumed me when I was in my teens, my 20’s, my early 30’s even. When I wrote my hopes + dreams in bold and CAPITAL LETTERS. Where I broke into rooms and elbowed my way into conversations. When I annoyed everyone, but also earned their respect. When I was good. When I wanted.
My ambition just hasn’t been the same post-pandemic, for several reasons. I got tired. Like, tired of all of it. Of the late nights and running around the city late at night, for the small audiences and the careless producers, of the dumb auditions and thoughtless direction, for the social media of it all, of the bitterness and jealousy, of roommates, of proving myself over and over and over and over again until my throat bled from screaming into a world of people who didn’t want to listen, of the doubt, of the rejection, of the disappointment, of the heartbreak, of the hopelessness, of the game. The pure exhaustion of it all.
Of all the writing and time that went into projects that kept a shelf life of about eight months, then needed to discarded in order to start creating the next “big thing” I hoped would get a gatekeeper's attention.
I’ve said this before and I will say it every hour, on the hour, until I die: to be aspiring and wide-eyed is to be praised for having a dream. It’s authentic electric hope, it feels amazing and people are proud of you. Aspiration is fuel. The first step you take towards that big, bad dream though, things get hard. The second step you take, everyone forgets about you. The third step is when people quit. I am on my 94,377th step.
You go from aspiring to trying, and trying is hard. And to sustain that trying is grueling. (We love a debut album, but by the fifth album your favorite artist becomes a flop, re: Mariah Carey’s Glitter).
I grinded (ground?) my bones, destroyed relationships, depleted my band account, went fucking crazy, and abandoned all other life options on my quest to being more, getting more. And that was bad. And then the pandemic hit.
I didn’t just create Written in Brooklyn, I designed it. It was meant to provide the resource + training + community I needed for so long. And now I’m a teacher and now I’m a business woman, and now I’m a producer, and now I’m a graphic designer, and now I’m a marketer. I traded my sequins for denim, my late nights for early mornings, and I grew up.
Written in Brooklyn: I love it, I need it, I believe in it.
But all this star quality has taken up a lot of space in my tiny apartment for too long and it needs the stage and lights. I’ve bottled up my ambitions of stardom, boxed up my dreams of really fucking doing it, and shamed myself for fantasizing about the same things I have been since for fucking ever: lights, audience, applause. Talent. Talent. The biggest. The best.
But, with a lot of soul searching -
I’m starting to get my appetite back, thank fucking gawd. I want bigger. I want more. I’m remembering who I was, and who I was, who I am, is a performer. Is loud. Is BIG.
Not only do I want to do it more, I want to do it better. Sure, I write and rewrite and edit and read and talk shop and see art and perform on the Written in Brooklyn show and, generally speaking, try to be good at storytelling. But honestly, I never really let myself try to be great anymore. I’m scared I’ll fail. There, I said it. That is my biggest fear: I won’t be great, I will only be good and poor.
When I was younger, I tried to be seen, tried to be what they wanted, tried to fit a part, tried to get a job. And this was necessary. I didn’t sell out, I mean, I was still trying to make it with the words I had written, it’s like like I went to work on a cruise ship or something.
But these days, even though my whole focus is anything that has to do with “writing,” I’m not really writing all that much. I’m a salesperson now. I’m a dog mom. I sleep. My life is slower. I’m writing but I’m not crafting.
That’s going to change.
An artist needs to rest, but they shouldn’t rest on their laurels, that’s the fucking trap. And I think that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m giving myself grace and credit here; I’m still in the game blah blah blah. But I’m not pushing myself, I’m nudging.
I will start stepping into my star power today. I unpacked it last night and set it out to put on first thing in the morning. Today is Monday, and after all, I’ve always done well with an arbitrary sense of renewal.
Pour me out, bitches.
Loved this one, esp “ I’m not pushing myself, I’m nudging.”