“Anything but that” is the last thing you want to hear when you finally gain the courage to share your dreams with someone. Especially, when their support could have been the nudge you needed to actually picture yourself living in what now feels like a childish fantasy. I know that we are told to work in silence, but I guess I just love having an audience, even though I’ve given front-row seats to the wrong people. Being sentimental transforms my art in beautiful ways, like delicate strokes on a broad canvas, but it also hinders my confidence whenever anyone voices their disappointment over my desire to be an artist. I am an artist and I need to remind myself that I should be proud of my lifelong dream.
They don’t see how much I’ve tried to change. I’ve given my all, trying to fall in love with Plan B, lost sleep over trying to figure out Plan C, and probably missed the deadline for Plan D. The nights where I’m not panicking over the approval of a few extremely opinionated individuals, I’m constantly fearing the swift breeze of time. The opportunities that have fizzled out, the years spent doing other things just to get my family off my back. The little girl who just wanted to write and star in movies probably has me on a hit list. I try to gain back her confidence, to perceive even a glimmer of the excessive hope that radiated off her. My glasses have yet to aid me in my pursuit of that memory, maybe she has given up on me.
There is a fiery anger that resides in the deepest corners of my heart; it’s dormant at times, allowing me to go on with my day. I’m performing everywhere I go, just not in a space where I feel at home. I don’t get to bow and leave my character on stage, smelling sweet roses after a job well done. I carry this persona skin deep, this attempt of navigating through a life where parts of me are missing. Trying to envision a future devoid of writing and acting, as dramatic as it sounds, is like giving up on the essence of who I am. Art has always been an integral part of my soul, to minimize its presence would be to never see myself clearly ever again. Call me a drama queen! You should be able to infer by now that I wholeheartedly agree with you.
I get angry because nobody seemed to understand that I only called it a dream because I knew it wasn’t seen as a proper goal. I never saw it as a possibility when I was younger because the table had already been set, without my input, yet my rushed alternatives were accepted. It’s funny how I was old enough to pick a major in college, but only a child could get away with taking the arts seriously. They never heard me say that I wanted to pursue another career, I just whispered “well, I guess I could do something else” and they just went with it. The anger flares up as I remember how I reduced myself, how I decided that my dreams were too big, and proceeded to shrink as instructed.
The emptiness that I am experiencing now, where I am so far away from my craft and doubtful of my potential, helps me find peace with the fact that some people will think that I am a lost cause. That I am a gifted child that burnt out when it came to picking a ‘real’ job. It doesn’t matter what I do, so why not try to be happy? Being rejected at auditions seems like a small victory in comparison to the disappointment that I feel towards myself at times. I hate how weak my will can be, and how I let others amplify my anxieties as they hide from their own struggles.
But don’t think that I am blissfully unaware of how painful it is to be an artist. This isn’t a fairytale where I get to ride off into the sunset, Hollywood on my horizon shining like the sun. Rejection is all around, in fact, it’s the norm. I’ve fallen in love with characters that were never meant to be mine, and I have written scripts that will never see the light of day. We give so much and it boils down to a one-sided interaction most of the time. It all seemed so easy in the safety of my childhood bedroom, as I hurt my vocal cords trying to sound like Jim Carrey’s interpretation of the Grinch. Back then, I had no idea that it isn’t just wanting to do it, it is also the struggle of getting the right ears to listen. Life is about connecting with others but the idea of having to socialize with the ulterior motive of promoting myself, makes me want to retreat back to that room. Back to the dream, where the sky couldn’t touch me and I could create without the pressure of wanting to be universally liked.
There’s the fear of the possibilities. When my art stops being just mine, where my articles become hints of me that people can find with just a click, where I am no longer a random face. Even now, my art goes far beyond me. These words are immortalized, and ten years from now, they will mean something else entirely when I re-read them. People will feel over the things that I made and I could possibly never find out. Isn’t it magical? How someone can share so much of themselves and their creations can become so personal to others. I can hear it in my favorite songs, read it between the lines of my favorite scripts, and watch how it decorates the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen; the beating heart of an artist. A heavy burden to carry, a breath of life to many.