Several years ago, I sat in the back row of the Bernard Jacobs
Theatre taking in the Broadway-hit, Frost
Nixon. The entire auditorium sat in
silence, gripped during the play’s most compelling monologue. Just as the
speech ended I heard an elderly woman in front of me whisper, “Beautiful,”
under her breath. I want to make people
feel that way, I thought -- so moved by a piece of expression they
literally can’t keep it to themselves.
I followed the blueprint for someone hoping to tell stories for
a living. I moved to New York, went to a fancy drama school, and in no time was
auditioning for big television, film, and theater productions. I was convinced
it’d only be a matter of time before audiences were falling over my Hamlet, or tuning in to my hit series.
Since the age of 11 all I ever cared to be was a storyteller. And for the first
time it all seemed within reach.
My self-assurance was not misplaced. I spent years improving my
craft. Each morning I arrived at the theater so early I’d have to quietly
tiptoe past a sleeping guard before practicing monologues and studying plays
hours before class even started. I was maniacal about the work, even at a bully
at times, reluctant to share warm-up space or end a rehearsal a minute early.
There was work to be done and I wanted the dream too much to take any chances.
By the time I’d reached my mid-30s I’d racked up some nice TV
appearances, performed in some notable regional theaters, and appeared in a
handful of commercials. I even worked as a casting reader, performing opposite
the very actors that inspired me to someday grace the stages of the Broadway
houses that lined mid-town Manhattan.
But soon it became clear my dreams were falling apart. Nothing
was unfolding the way I’d dreamt as a boy, or planned in drama school. Yes, I’d
made some progress, even gone further than most, but the harder I worked the
more I felt like I was spinning my wheels. So at the age of 37 I decided with a
heavy heart it was time to pack it all in.
I moved back to California and spent the next year living in the
small guest room of a close friend. Being a good roommate was at times a
delicate two-step. I tried desperately to respect his space, while longing for
my own. I’d often sit in my car for hours writing, or listening to music
because it was the only place I could find any solitude.
For the first few months I struggled to find my footing in my
old hometown. I had trouble finding work, feeling a sense of purpose, and
grappling with the feeling I’d let down the friends and family who’d supported
my dreams all those years. But by far the greatest hurdle was dealing with the
loss of identity. If I was no longer an actor then who was I? I spent a lot of
time wondering if returning home was the biggest mistake of my life.
Then a shift began to take shape around the time I became more
serious about writing. I needed a creative outlet so I swapped the stage for a
pen. I wrote every day, some times terribly, other times boldly. I jotted down
my thoughts in a daily blog, wrote screenplays, published articles, and even
put the finishing touches on a book I’d been working on.
As the year went on I also tried to be of service to my
community. I volunteered as a writer coach at a middle school, landed a summer
teaching job, started a website devoted to promoting only positive news out of
my hometown, and even delivered a TEDx Talk based on the discoveries I made
returning home.
I also found time to visit new corners of the globe, read great
books, rekindle old friendships and spend time with my family. Most
importantly, I was able to be around for my aunt whose health had been fading.
The distance from the bright lights of Times Square had helped
me realize acting was not who I was but simply something I did. My self-worth
wasn’t defined by the credits on my resume, or the number of commercials I’d
booked. For the first time in a long time I understood there was more to life
than appearing on Law & Order, or
getting the perfect headshot. And in time, my goals became less about achieving
more, but rather about becoming more.
In the end failure had saved me. I found grace in my broken
dreams and deepened my understanding of the “bigger picture.” I learned I could
have high standards and still be kind to myself, that no award or notoriety can
fill a void, and that the quality of our lives depends on the quality of our
philosophies – how we chose to “show up.”
But most importantly, I was reminded that all those years I
spent in voice, movement, and scene study class had little to do with becoming
a big successful actor. Instead, we were being taught to speak our minds, take
bold risks, do something kind for others, and be lifelong learners. If we were
fortunate, we might become great actors along the way. The point was to be open
to where life might take us.
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