A Starving Artist on Strokes of Luck

There is an unspoken rule-slash-motto when it comes to auditions:
"Aim to get the Callback."

You get the Callback, you've essentially won.  You've already done your part, you've given the casting director what they wanted, and everything past that is beyond your control. 

It's a real good rule-slash-motto to live by. Wanna know why? :
ALL THE REASONS WHY.  ALL THE THINGS.

For one of the things, it just keeps you sane.  You end up focusing on your one small task to worry about (just doing whatever's at hand in the initial audition room) versus 72 different things all at once (the initial whatever at hand, What if I change shit up if I get my Callback?, HolyFuck-what-if-I-don't-get-a-Callback?!, Is it bad that I didn't go to Carnegie Mellon?,  Is it bad that I haven't worked-out yet today?, Am I wearing the right thing today and should I wear something different tomorrow and could I look better?, How will I spend my money if I book this thing?,  Should I be reckless and blow it on that sexy pair of Fryes that I've been wanting for forever or should I be responsible WHY AM I SO IRRESPONSIBLE?!).  Stuff like that.

For another of the things, it keeps you from taking all of this audition-stuff too personally.  You can do your thing in the room and you can KILL it, but ultimately, once that Callback happens, if they decide that they don't want a girl with (large)(LARGE) curly blonde hair or (large)(LARGE) blue eyes, ain't nothin you can do about it.

You get the Callback, you don't book it, it's not your fault, and it's not the end of the world.  Period.

Unless.

Unless you're moving to Los Angeles.

Unless you're moving to Los Angeles and have been, for the past 3 months, On Hold/Availability Checked/First Refusaled/Thrice Read/CAST only to have the project axed for (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...yeah) at least eight different projects.  No kidding.  NO. KIDDING.

Because once THOSE words are thrown in front of you, see, you start to actually plan on the gig.  For real.  You begin to believe that you've booked it, and you have every reason to believe as much.  You begin to imagine where on your reel you're going to place that footage and what an awesome credit that will be on your resume and how much easier this money will make your life and your move and your acquiring a car--which is a thing that you have not had to think about in (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...thirteen) at least thirteen years, and once this opportunity has been snatched from you at least eight times in three months (... ... ...), you're not just bruised anymore, you're starting to feel ever so slightly insane.  You start to lose it.

And I started to lose it about an hour ago.

I had gotten a First Refusal for a gig last night and instantaneously forwarded the email to my boyfriend with a "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!" headliner as THIS EMAIL WAS INSTANTANEOUSLY SOLVING ALL OF MY EVERYTHING BECAUSE THIS BITCH, THIS FUCKING GIG WAS MIIIIINE.  And I had an evening of goodness and relief and breathing deeply and going "What?  Moving is panic-inducing?  But I'm about to have all of this money come in.  Why have I been so on-edge about this whole thing again?  That's weird."

Until it wasn't weird anymore. Until this afternoon, when I got an email:
"They revised the Callback list and you didn't make it...sooorry, next time."

(God.  Fucking.  Dammit.)

And I began to hyperventilate.

And I began to pace like a maniac.

And I called my boyfriend.

"How's the dog today?"
I DIDN'T BOOK THE GIG.
"...What?"
I DIDN'T BOOK IT.
"But. You got First Whatevered."
REFUSALED.
"Isn't it yours?"
IT WAS IT'S NOT.
"Honey."
WHY IS THIS HAPPENING WHY AM I GETTING TEASED SO HARD WHY DO ALL OF THESE THINGS KEEP GETTING DANGLED RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME?!?! I CAN'T.
"Honey.  Honey, are you crying?  Don't cry."
...Almost.  Al-most crying.  (I was crying.)
"You're crying.  Don't cry.  Call your manager."
What?
"Ask him what happened."
...Now?
"Yup."
...'kay.  I hate this.
"I know."
Do you?! (I'm a girl.)
"Angela."
...'kay.

And so I did.  Which, truthfully, still feels weird even four-plus years into our relationship.  I should probably get over that.

Hiiiiii.
"I am so.  Sorry."
Yeah, no, I know.  ...I just want to know if I'm doing something wrong.  Am I doing anything wrong?
"What?"
It's just that this exact thing has happened so many times since January...
"...I know..."
...Right.  And I just, I didn't know if there was something else that I should be doing in the room.  If you were getting any kind of feedback about any of this?  Or something?  I don't know.

And then, he said one of the worst Absolute Truthy-phrases, the answer to 98% of Starving Artists' professional problems.

"It's just Luck.  It's just Luck, Angela."

Ugh.

That?  It's a fucking gut-punch.  And "Luck" is the worst because it sounds like a cop-out, and when you're feeling remotely desperate, remotely scrapped for cash and remotely scrapped for more things to throw on your resume, it will always sound like a cop-out.  But.  It is the undeniable truth.  And the gut-punchiness of it all is the fact that there just ain't nothin that you can do about it.  Not about Luck.  Not nothin.  Not shit.

"Ever think about taking some pictures of you with glasses?  Just for variety?"
... ...Maybe...? (Uhhh...)

I mean.  Maybe.

But maybe the one thing you can do is hope that the next room will be looking for a youngish-looking 31 year-old with (LARGE) curly blonde hair and (LARGE) blue eyes.

Maybe you can just continue picking up a million and seven shifts at your day-job to get that cash, and just not plan on booking anything.

Maybe you can continue doing research on car dealerships in the greater Los Angeles-area running deals for "$0 down, 0% APR"...and hope that it's still standing in three months.  ... ...It's fine.

Or.  Maybe you can find a way to just say Fuck It.  Do what you can in the everyday, and then, do what you can in the audition room.  Because you know that there will be another.  And you're savvy enough to know how to fucking bring it at this point.  (Right?)

Luck will have to take care of the rest.

And she can't always be a tease.