While waiting for a train that would eventually take me from Slovakia to Poland I decided to check a few emails. I tapped on my shiny touchscreen and saw I had a message from a film festival I’d submitted my work to a few months earlier.
Dear Nicholas Maccarone,
Of all the emails we send each year, this one is the most difficult to write. With fewer available slots and an increased number of total submissions, we regret to inform you that Communication will not be included in the 2016 Portland Film Festival.
This could get bad, I thought.
I’d submitted my short film to over 30 festivals around the world and was quickly becoming more dispirited by the film’s prospects of being seen.
As the number of commuters began to steadily grow on the platform, I also started to think about the number of literary agents who’d passed on a book I’d been writing for nearly a year.
And though I managed to grab the attention of one agent, our paths were crossing just as life was testing her resolve. She was wrestling with far more urgent matters than some nondescript manuscript, not the least of which was the fading health and eventual loss of her mother.
With my two projects sidelined I considered how challenging and sometimes futile it feels to try and get your voice heard in a progressively noisy world.
Yet, each time I felt a wave of discouragement wash over me I thought about the people I’d met during my travels across Eastern Europe.
The people in this part of the world inspire me with their grit and no-frills commitment to simply carrying on.
On my final night in Bratislava I went to Zichy Restaurant, which was once the property of the former Zichy Palace situated on the corner of Venturska and Prepost Street. The building was constructed between 1770 and 1780 where three medieval townhouses once stood.
I took a table inside and sat with my back to the window. The place was completely empty, which is never a good sign.
Still, I decided to stay and was greeted by a kind waiter who seemed to appear out of nowhere. I ordered a pasta dish, while glancing at the highlighted passages of a book I’d picked up a few hours before.
“Slow tonight,” I said.
“Yes. You know, Monday and Tuesday is sometimes quiet difficult but Friday and Saturday are busy.”
What struck me about this man was his even-keel demeanor, one that I’d grown accustomed to in much of my travels. He didn’t seem worked up or discouraged by the slow business. Instead, he took it all in stride while emanating a sense of decency and effortless joy.
I could learn from this guy, I thought.
He asked me questions about New York, Brooklyn specifically, as we talked about its diversity and how he’d like to visit one day.
Before paying the bill, I mentioned how I’d grown up in California, which seemed to pique his interest even more.
“If you go to Los Angeles, say hi to Charlie Sheen for me,” he said.
It was undoubtedly the most bizarre but earnest request I’d ever received.
“I sure will,” I told him.
As I look back on my journey through Eastern Europe I marvel at how the people fiercely cling to a sense of resiliency despite having dealt with war, poverty, and a degree of adversity I could only write up in a screenplay.
Yet, they maintain a stride, a grit, and a backbone I find uplifting.
I couldn’t help but feel grateful I read that email in Slovakia of all places. When I think about the setbacks to my creative endeavors, the films, books, and words I so desperately want to share with the world it’s often a challenge not to take such failures personally.
But it also lends itself to a heightened awareness about the world and understanding, if not an appreciation, that it ain’t all about you.
Thankfully, I didn’t need to look for perspective on the bigger picture.
It was already all around me.
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