Ambition should be made of sterner stuff

When I was seven, Worcester County Light Opera decided to mount a production of Annie. A very savvy business move for any community theater – but most especially in 1982, in the afterglow of Albert Finney and Carol Burnett on the big screen. Of course, I loved that movie. Like a large percentage of my peers. Only, unlike all those other sycophants, I was an actress. I had been dancing since I was three. I put on shows every time someone sat in our living room and happened to look through the proscenium archway into the dining room. So, naturally, I had to be in the play. No. I was going to be in the play.

I don’t actually remember the audition. Much. I realized I wasn’t much of a singer. I also learned that the perfection I mastered in the dining room and on my front porch failed me when under the scrutiny of a table full of adults and surrounded by the intimidating crowd of so many other girls wanting to be an orphan. I knew I wasn’t Annie material. I wanted to be Molly. Because I had brown hair. And I was cute, right?

I do remember my mother breaking the news to me. My mother… who is often very brusque in her delivery of things… actually came into my room. Maybe she sat me down. Definitely gentle and attempting to explain to a little girl why she wasn’t good enough. But no matter the rare sweetness of my mother, it devastated me. I was crushed. And I didn’t feel good enough.

Now… obviously, if you know anything about me… you know that didn’t stop me. I have picked myself up and subjected myself to many more auditions in the subsequent three decades. My ego has been bruised and cut even more deeply over parts that had much more emotional register than a singing orphan. I’ve been rewarded with parts I didn’t even know I wanted that badly… and wouldn’t trade for the world. I’ve also been a director. A director who has had to audition an endless stream of eager little girls (and big girls) and had to tell them no.

But… that first hurt… well, I just teared up as I typed the details. The first hurts heal… but they stay as reminders. A warning. A motivation. Like a broken heart. It can make us stronger if we let it… or can make us weaker. It still sucks.

So… no surprise… it sucks to get that first rejection letter when ‘auditioning’ my written word. I knew it was going to happen. It happens to every writer. Even the absolute best. I don’t count myself exempt from the initiation. But… Jesus, it still hurts like hell.

In spite of the brave face I put on most of the time, I have that artistic underbelly. A tender heart that gets crushed by the word no. Even when my brain is perfectly rational with the understanding that it isn’t personal. It isn’t just happening to me. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad writer. It doesn’t mean give up. It doesn’t mean I’m not good enough. I know that. It didn’t stop me from wanting to imbibe a couple bottles of wine and hide in the cave of my room for a few nights. Okay, a week.

This morning I made myself run. Even though I have a dance class tonight. I figured the extra endorphin rush could put a damper on the sulky attitude. It must have worked… because I want to write again today.

Shit happens. It does. To everyone. I am annoyed that Sarah Palin who can’t even read the smudged ink on her palm correctly gets a second book deal and I can’t get beyond the query stage right now. It’s frustrating… but, geez, isn’t that a sign of despair when I have to measure my success by the veneer of Sarah Palin?

But see, I’m not the type of person to say woe is me and then point fingers when my life is less than satisfactory. Then expect the world to deliver. Nope. If I want something badly enough, I will work to get it. I just have to swallow hard and accept the fact it isn’t going to be easy. That I will be hurt again. And… well, just like theater… eventually I’ll get the call saying I’ve got the part.

But to end with a laugh... and a tip of respect to the difficulty of having to make the call... I really do get what casting is like for the other side.  Really.