I think that it's an important thing to go forth in your everyday life knowing not just why you do what you do, but who you're doing it for. And. I'm speaking both personally and professionally, of course, but, I do. I think that it's a hugely important thing to take note of.
Like, every Sunday, right? You walk out your door at 10am, or 1pm, and before the end of the afternoon, you will have found a pick-up game of basketball somewhere and played yourself into the ground. Why is this a thing? Or, you've known since you were a Sophomore in high school that you wanted to be a lawyer, and here you are, and you're killin it, and of course you are. But why was this so important to you to begin with? You had to kick off your 30th Birthday with a Maker's Manhattan, neat. You had to read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" to your first graders, first and foremost. You had to roast a chicken as your first home-cooked meal in your new place. You had to do these things, and without question. Awesome.
What's your rationale for all of this?
I just feel like we go about our everyday lives inspired by a variety of different people all at once, and man, I don't know, just take a second to swallow that concept, if you will. The idea that you get to carry around this network of inspiration with you all day every single day? I don't care if you think that sounds cheesy, that's an awesome awesome thing, honestly, that's a friggin gift-and-a-half. But, then, if you reeeeally think about it? I believe that there is very nearly always one central person outside of yourself that you do these various things that you do for. A person whose influence stands so tall that it dwarfs your self-importance. A person to whom the voice in the back of your brain goes "Aw. Man, You would just love this."
For that person? I have my Mom. In all things.
Some words about her:
My Mom never made any sort of money, but she was always the busiest person for miles, the most generous person for miles and, hands down, the happiest.
She took pictures of everything. No kidding, she single-handedly kept Kodak FunSavers relevant. I didn't understand it when I was younger, but I understand now that she just didn't want to miss anything. She didn't want to forget.
She could not cook or bake to save herself, but she loved doing it. So hard.
She was thrifty. To a fault.
She loved white zinfandel. Boxed. And she pretended like she "wasn't a big drinker. Do you know I've only ever been drunk twice?" ... ... ...
She was a terrible liar.
She had an intense shoe obsession (and the fattest feet in the universe...Sorry, Mom).
She came to every single game/team meeting/rehearsal/show/field trip of mine. She'd bring snacks, and she'd offer rides home, and she'd make us feel like we'd just done god's work. Every time.
She never questioned anything that I wanted to do. Ever. Rather, she supported me without question, relentlessly, and bent over backwards to do so.
She talked about dreams. She talked about practicality. She talked about the importance of maintaining both of those things, evenly.
She talked about the importance of resilience.
She talked about the importance of "sticking to your guns".
She talked about how I needed to tell her when I was considering having sex for the first time so we could, "...You know. Just talk about it. I won't try to talk you out of it. We'll just. Talk."
She consistently aspired for "Better". I don't know if she ever felt
like she got there, but I do know that she never backed down from the
fight.
She loved like it was her job. I believe that to her, it was.
Today, my Mom would have turned 56 years old.
I can't remember what her voice sounds like anymore, but every day, I attempt to walk about my Everdayness in an effort to make her proud. In the hopes that I could potentially hear a "Good girl!" or "What a fun thing!" from somewhere out in the ether as opposed to "Well. I don't...I mean, I'm not sure if that was the best idea?"
I carry her around with me because she was the kind of person that you just always wanted to keep around.
I aspire to do that, to keep her around, as long as I am able.
I aspire to reach her level of Badassery. Be half the Warrior that she was. Half the Woman.
I aspire.
And strangely? That's very nearly fulfilling.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
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.
"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.
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