How I Learned the Importance of Emotional Intelligence

During my last year of drama school my class was paid a visit by a gentleman asked to speak about the business of acting. I remember all 17 of us sitting at full attention, furiously jotting notes in an effort to soak up as much as we could on how to break into the fiercely competitive world of storytelling. And though I appreciated what the seasoned casting director had to say, there was a part of me that thought it all a bit silly.

For three years all I cared about was improving my craft as an actor. The notion of having to network or invest in business cards wasn’t even on my radar. My concerns rarely went beyond memorizing a Shakespeare sonnet or scrounging for rehearsal space. 

All I wanted to do was act, and if possible, get paid to do so. I figured talent and hard work were enough to thrive in this industry. I believed with the right focus and preparation I could simply will my way to the top.

But just two years after that workshop I found myself sitting on a park bench in a complete daze. I felt like I’d been sucker punched.

“We’ve decided to no longer represent you,” the voice on the other end said. “But good luck.”

If there’s anything I’ve learned in pursuing an extraordinarily difficult dream and now entrepreneurship, it’s that your “why” must be sound, your “how” flexible, and your sense of self-awareness heightened.

I later realized one of the reasons I’d been let go was because I had failed to cultivate a business mindset. Sitting by the phone for the perfect part to magically land in my lap apparently wasn’t enough. I needed to up my game.

Opportunity comes to those who mobilize

Much as changed since that spring afternoon. Today, I no longer wait for opportunities but mobilize to create them. I also understand the importance of diversifying one’s knowledge in their chosen field. I have learned to leverage my strengths while being a shrewd judge of my shortcomings. And in the process, I’ve even grown to appreciate those weaknesses.

In other words, my understanding of the value of emotional intelligence has liberated me while making the work more enjoyable.

You don’t have to be great at everything

The truth is you’re not going to be good at everything, and that’s okay. I once asked by an exasperated supervisor if I was “sent by the enemy,” when I failed yet again to grasp the system at the homeless shelter he ran. 

Being moved by rousing speeches and fascinated by the world of foreign policy didn’t mean I was cut out for politics, as I learned during an internship in my mid-30s. 

And you can bet the cost of a ballpark beer that I’ll never hit a baseball out of the Oakland Coliseum.

Today I’m okay with those realities, while just a few years ago any talk of limitations would have compelled me to work harder. I choose to focus on my strengths, while learning the skills needed to grow both personally and professionally. 

As a result, my efforts have become more deliberate and focused.

Today, it’s so tempting to believe our trajectories must be congruent with the ones getting all the headlines. Spend a few minutes on any social media platform and it’s nearly impossible to sidestep news of the next billion-dollar start-up or rocket launch, which seem designed to make you feel like you aren’t working hard enough.

But wanting to emulate someone’s journey because of the notoriety it draws isn’t enough. If there’s anything I’ve learned in pursuing an extraordinarily difficult dream and now entrepreneurship, it’s that your “why” must be sound, your “how” flexible, and your sense of self-awareness heightened.   

Unfortunately, it’s not hip to admit we’re not brilliant at everything. We’re led to believe failure should be avoided at all costs and that if we can’t be great at something it’s not worth pursuing. But the truth is there is profound courage in vulnerability. 

The ability to look within and assess how we can best make an impact requires a rare kind of honest introspection. And knowing ourselves helps us better understand how to leverage our gifts to create more value for others. The tricky part is trying to figure out just how to do that.

Failure is wisdom masquerading as discouragement

In an interview with Larry King, serial entrepreneur and speaker Gary Vaynerchuk was asked how one learns self-awareness. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I know it’s damn important.” So, if one can’t be taught how to best assess their strengths and take ownership of their weaknesses, what do we do?

In my experience, the key has been learning to fall in love with failure. What I learned in an industry where you’re told “No” virtually 99% of the time is that not getting what you want is not a testament to your self-worth or even your talent. It’s merely feedback; another tool to assess where you are and where you need to be.

If you can hone the ability to not take failure personally, it can work in your favor. First, it can be a stepping-stone to building resilience and in the process a singular type of character. One learns to not take exclusion as a character flaw, or worse, let it inhibit forward progress.

Second, massive failure can help clarify a new path you may have never considered or even realized you were equipped to take. My acting career might not have panned out exactly as planned, but being trained in the art of storytelling has supplied me with the tools to share my message through writing, speaking, and consulting. 

But I would have never made the shift if my thinking had been inflexible or if I hadn’t been attentive to my sense of self.  

Allow your curiosity to be constantly piqued, particularly when it comes to your self. And though it would take several lifetimes to simply scratch the surface of what makes us whole, it is still a noble and worthy pursuit. Recognizing our limitations is key, but through trial and error we may even discover that we’re not as limited as we thought, especially in arenas we have yet to consider. 

We all have something of value to contribute, and no matter how long it takes to find, it’s worth striving for.        

* This article was previously published on Goalcast.com on November 21, 2017

"Because I saw you come in." A Master Class by Kobe Bryant

"I always tried to outwork people. That's just how I made my mark," former NBA player and Duke standout Jason Williams said during a recent interview. He also shared the story of how he once prepped for a game against the Los Angeles Lakers when the team's lineup consisted of none other than Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant.

"This is the championship Lakers. I'm going to get there at 3:00 (in the morning). I want to make sure I make 400 made shots before I go back into the room and sit in the sauna." Apparently, Williams wasn't the only one with that idea. As he walked into the stadium he saw Kobe Bryant already working out.

"I worked out for a good hour, hour and half," Williams said. "When I came off after I was done I sat down and of course I still hear the ball bouncing." Williams was floored Bryant was still working out, especially since he was already in a dead sweat when Williams arrived. 

He decides to unlace his shoes and watch Bryant not only from a strategic standpoint but out of curiosity to see how long the former MVP planned on continuing his rigorous workout. "Another 25 minutes and he got done," Williams recalls. "I think I've seen enough," he remembers saying to himself. That evening Bryant scored 40 points. 

After the game Williams asked Bryant about his famous work ethic so he could understand why Bryant put so much effort in improving his craft. "Hey Kobe, why were you in the gym for so long?" he asked. Bryant looked at him and said, "Because I saw you come in. I wanted you to know it doesn't matter how hard you work. I'm willing to work harder than you. You inspire me to be better."

Williams walked away thinking, "I need to start doing more."  

The Beauty in Broken Dreams

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.   

Look for the Superstars in Your Life

To me the real superstars were people like my friend Jeryl, who'd work a double-shift and then carry her heavy keyboard all the way from lower Manhattan to the Bronx for a performance that started at midnight.

Then there was Maria who worked all day at a law office then made her way to Tribeca after work to perform in a staged reading in a quite bookstore after work. 

These were people forced to bend time, babysit, and teach just to find any way they could to sing, write, act, play, and do what they loved most.

I learned that success was simply improving upon something you loved to do and attainment of the goal wasn't the point but rather who you became in its pursuit.

Find your Jeryl's and Maria's. Find your superstars.

The Different Meanings of Creative Work

Yesterday, I saw the film Jack Reacher 2. Yeah, I said it. It was the second time I’d spent $11.50 to see a protagonist beat-up villains and win the day in somewhat predictable fashion. And I loved every second of it.

Not all entertainment has to be rarefied in taste. In fact, it probably shouldn’t be. For years, I wrestled with the purpose of my own work. Who’s life was I improving by being an actor? I started to wonder. 

But sitting in a newly renovated movie house that'd stood in the center of town for nearly 90 years with three of my closest friends, I realized what we do matters…a lot. 

Writing, filming, staging, painting, drawing, dancing - CREATING. It serves a purpose. Whether a movie places a role in shifting your beliefs on a contentious issue, or provides an escape, or an excuse to spend time with close friends, there is meaning to the work. 

So don’t stop.