The Comeback Kid

When did I give up on my creative dreams? It happened slowly, yet all at once. The seeds were planted at a young age when I was asked questions like: “What’s your back-up plan, ya know if things don’t work out?” or “Do you have a minor in college? So you can get, like a real job.?” These seeds of doubt were planted and buried deep, but over time grew from a seedling quickly towering as a Great Red Oak, overshadowing my innate artistic passion. What drove me everyday, what kept me at 16 hour rehearsals or writing until my hand became cramped and calloused?

I remember the exact moment I gave up on my acting career. It was 1999 in Philadelphia and I was walking down the infamous South Street with my best friend admiring a beautiful mosaic wall, and the thought passed through my mind: “This is not going to happen for me.” It was a lie my own brain was telling itself. Up until that point nothing of the sort had crossed my thought-scape. Fear, doubt, nervousness, anxiety: yes, that comes with the territory of being an actor. An absolute insured thought of failure: no. That is the moment I gave up on my career as an actor.

Oh, I went on acting for years after that, but that pivotal moment on philly-cheese-steak-smelling South St. , my inner dialogue (not a monologue, there is a crew up there) transformed from, “Maybe I won’t make it,” to “I am not going to make it.” In retrospect, a soul-crushing moment to say the least. The denial that you wade through for years after not allowing yourself to accept the truth of your situation is thick and very tumultuous. Believing the new lie, that you are Broadway-bound, and the next triple-threat to hit New York City is nauseating to recall.

Isn’t this turning into a sweet bedtime story? One which you could read to your children as you tuck them into bed at night and kiss their smelly, sweet heads?? Almost a lullaby of sorts. So kids, your dreams are dead, you are a walking hypocrite, who is oblivious, like a Real Housewife of Camden. Where do you go from there? The good thing about hitting rock bottom is that there is no where to go but up. I’m sure I saw that as a meme on Facebook or on a coffee mug in the self-help section in Barnes and Nobles, so I can’t take credit for it, but it definitely hit home.

Sometimes clichés are clichés because they hold truth. Once you slice through the denial like a Samurai warrior and face the ugly, painful, but powerful truth you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps (or to not use an analogy from the 1800’s), hit the “refresh” button on your laptop and start anew. 

Pain, anguish, and misery can be very powerful tools for any artist, especially writers, as long as you are able to tap into these overflowing aqueducts of emotion without getting caught and end up drowning. We as a society have lost too many artists who were unable to separate the art from the artist and were added to the “27 club” or similar lists that unfortunately exist in every vein of art.

Using humor to separate myself from the pain can be helpful but a tightrope to walk, one without a safety net. I don’t want to cover or escape reality through humor, but to use it to underline, highlight and punctuate my work. Sarcasm, although fun and funny, is a subtle form of anger. I become very uncomfortable around someone who is sarcastic all of the time, I’m thinking: “What are you so angry about?” Self-deprecating humor and sarcasm can be very funny if it is coming from a place of enlightenment instead of anger or fear. I turned it around. This time, in the here and now with my feet placed firmly on the ground, I refuse to give up again. Not this artist, not this writer. It’s in my blood and it will be on the page.

ReplyForward