Last night I watched my show open, and it was a great show. People listened, and laughed, and the music all worked, and the cast were brilliant.
And at the reception I was thanked, and appreciated, and complimented, which felt amazing. People I'd hardly spoken to during rehearsals because I was too shy, too wrapped up in myself, came up and told me what a great job I'd done. I sat in a little room drinking gin and talking to people I really like and respect and felt totally accepted.
And it struck me, afterwards, how much time and effort I waste, waste, on being fearful. And scared. And shy. And self-doubting. And although I'd had such a good time during this process, it would have been so much better if I'd left those feelings behind me much, much earlier.
I'm not going to wallow in regrets about that now; I'm going to try and hold on to all those wonderful things I felt coming my way last night so that next time, next job, I can step into my role with pride and strength and know, right from the start, that it's going to be an interesting, challenging, fascinating journey. And that I am just the right person for the job.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
On Getting Mad.
I knew it would have to happen. I watched a run-through of the show and they were ignoring things I'd asked them to do many times; being as sloppy and non-specific with the songs- my songs- as they were being precise with their lines. I adore them all, and I think they like me, but somewhere along the way I had lost their respect, and the music was suffering.
My boyfriend, a graduate of the same theatre school, was matter-of-fact. "Get angry with them," he told me. "I know how they think. They won't respect you unless you're tough with them. It's what they're used to." He was right (it's a fantastic, but very challenging theatre program, where the teachers' philosophy is to break you down and then build you back up.) and they deserved it. So why was it so hard? Why did the thought of having to give a hard-ass speech (much less harsh than anything they hear daily from their instructors) at the next day's rehearsal keep me tossing and turning that night? Why does anger, or the mere anticipation of it, tie my stomach in knots and make me weep?
I hate to play the old blame-my-parents card, but anger (healthy anger, that is) was always a tricky issue with us. We're English, for god's sake. We suppress. We stiffen those upper lips and swear, tightly, that nothing is wrong. None of us is very good at blowing our tops and moving on; we glower and sulk until prodded. I can't get angry without a million buzzing voices of self-doubt torturing me:
It must be my fault.
What right have I got to be angry about this?
If I show anger, I won't be loved/liked anymore.
If I get angry, I am a demanding bitch. I should be more accommodating.
I am a woman. I would be willing to bet that we have more anger issues, in general, than men do. And that for some reason- and no, I don't think my parents can take all the blame here- I cannot feel angry without getting so wound up that I cannot use it effectively. Assertively.
"Remember to breathe," my lover tells me, the night before I have to stand up to my cast. "If you feel tears coming on, breathe from below them." He gestures to my stomach, the centre, as my Akido sensei used to say, of my Qi. J has been assailed many times in the last decade by my highly-strung, ineffective rage, and so his words feel especially like a gift.
I go in to rehearsal and deliver a talk, so choked up that I can hardly get the words out. I don't cry, although my chest feels as though there are metal bands around it. I don't know if the lecture helped, but the next run-through is noticeably better. And I think they still like me.
Two days later I am still shaking my head at myself, and looking for solutions so that it will get easier the next time. And the next time. And the time after that. Solutions that are mental: detach, don't over-analyze. Solutions that are physical: centre, relax, and above all: breathe.
Even when you know deep-down that you need to change; and you're willing to make that change, it's always easier said than done, isn't it?
My boyfriend, a graduate of the same theatre school, was matter-of-fact. "Get angry with them," he told me. "I know how they think. They won't respect you unless you're tough with them. It's what they're used to." He was right (it's a fantastic, but very challenging theatre program, where the teachers' philosophy is to break you down and then build you back up.) and they deserved it. So why was it so hard? Why did the thought of having to give a hard-ass speech (much less harsh than anything they hear daily from their instructors) at the next day's rehearsal keep me tossing and turning that night? Why does anger, or the mere anticipation of it, tie my stomach in knots and make me weep?
I hate to play the old blame-my-parents card, but anger (healthy anger, that is) was always a tricky issue with us. We're English, for god's sake. We suppress. We stiffen those upper lips and swear, tightly, that nothing is wrong. None of us is very good at blowing our tops and moving on; we glower and sulk until prodded. I can't get angry without a million buzzing voices of self-doubt torturing me:
It must be my fault.
What right have I got to be angry about this?
If I show anger, I won't be loved/liked anymore.
If I get angry, I am a demanding bitch. I should be more accommodating.
I am a woman. I would be willing to bet that we have more anger issues, in general, than men do. And that for some reason- and no, I don't think my parents can take all the blame here- I cannot feel angry without getting so wound up that I cannot use it effectively. Assertively.
"Remember to breathe," my lover tells me, the night before I have to stand up to my cast. "If you feel tears coming on, breathe from below them." He gestures to my stomach, the centre, as my Akido sensei used to say, of my Qi. J has been assailed many times in the last decade by my highly-strung, ineffective rage, and so his words feel especially like a gift.
I go in to rehearsal and deliver a talk, so choked up that I can hardly get the words out. I don't cry, although my chest feels as though there are metal bands around it. I don't know if the lecture helped, but the next run-through is noticeably better. And I think they still like me.
Two days later I am still shaking my head at myself, and looking for solutions so that it will get easier the next time. And the next time. And the time after that. Solutions that are mental: detach, don't over-analyze. Solutions that are physical: centre, relax, and above all: breathe.
Even when you know deep-down that you need to change; and you're willing to make that change, it's always easier said than done, isn't it?
Sunday, November 1, 2009
All Hallows Eve
Every two weeks I sit in a small office and tell a gentle, motherly lady about my problems.
Which, the more I go, I realize just how lucky I am.
Not that I didn't know this already, but sometimes you forget, in the daily rush and press of life.
If nothing else comes of these sessions, at least I will come out of them knowing this: that the anticipation of events is what scares me; that I am strong and brave when it comes to actually doing things. I write down the things that scare me, and then I watch them crumble into dust when I face them head-on. A new job. A difficult person. Being broke. The future.
Right now, my mom is working with people who have been broken since they were kids. They are broken, and yet they build hope with what they have left to work with, and they carry on. They are lawbreakers, addicts, homeless, bipolar. In the shadow of their misfortunes I am speechless and grateful for the gifts I have: love, family, friends, work.
Tonight was the perfect Halloween night, as if all the planets had aligned: Saturday night, clear but slightly misty, and... (special bonus): Daylight Savings the next day. The streets were choked with freaks: bunnies, slutty nurses, witches, cowboys, monsters of all descriptions. The side streets echoed (and echo still) with firecrackers. It was as if the whole city had been saving up its zany party animal side for this one night. I threw off a long day of work, threw on some mad clothes I found in the dark corner of my closet, and headed out into the night to gulp red wine and eat too much sugar.
Too lucky to feel anything but happy on this night of spirits.
Which, the more I go, I realize just how lucky I am.
Not that I didn't know this already, but sometimes you forget, in the daily rush and press of life.
If nothing else comes of these sessions, at least I will come out of them knowing this: that the anticipation of events is what scares me; that I am strong and brave when it comes to actually doing things. I write down the things that scare me, and then I watch them crumble into dust when I face them head-on. A new job. A difficult person. Being broke. The future.
Right now, my mom is working with people who have been broken since they were kids. They are broken, and yet they build hope with what they have left to work with, and they carry on. They are lawbreakers, addicts, homeless, bipolar. In the shadow of their misfortunes I am speechless and grateful for the gifts I have: love, family, friends, work.
Tonight was the perfect Halloween night, as if all the planets had aligned: Saturday night, clear but slightly misty, and... (special bonus): Daylight Savings the next day. The streets were choked with freaks: bunnies, slutty nurses, witches, cowboys, monsters of all descriptions. The side streets echoed (and echo still) with firecrackers. It was as if the whole city had been saving up its zany party animal side for this one night. I threw off a long day of work, threw on some mad clothes I found in the dark corner of my closet, and headed out into the night to gulp red wine and eat too much sugar.
Too lucky to feel anything but happy on this night of spirits.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Meme of the Day
I've been a huge fan of SweetSalty Kate's for a couple of years now. In fact, it's fair to say that it was her blog that made me want to start writing again, and that led to the birth of East Van Chronicles. I started reading her blog when she was going through the most heartbreaking time imaginable, so to read about her triumphs and successes these days is truly wonderful.
Anyway, enough gushing. I've been kinda stuck lately on what to write about here, so I'm doing the following meme, courtesy of Kate's other blog. If you like it, paste it into your own blogs and do it too...
Vehicle: The Giant Peach from "James & the Giant Peach" (Roald Dahl)
Tool: One Ring to Rule Them All, of course!
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why? Into any of Charles de Lint's Newford stories. I've wanted to love in his world (and specifically in his fictional city of Newford) ever since I first read "Memory & Dream". Folk musicians, good friends, artists, dreams, danger and lashings of magic. What's not to love?
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why? Rupert Campbell-Black, from Jilly Cooper's "Riders", "Rivals", etc series. He'd be impossible, but never, ever boring. Or Lord Peter Wimsey. Hmmm.
4) The War For the Oaks (Emma Bull) is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four. In fact, the only book I have ever literally finished reading and begun to read again. Immediately.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable? George, of The Famous Five. She got to dress like a boy, had a dog, and solved mysteries with her 3 cousins all the time.
6) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most frightening? Pennywise the clown in Stephen King's "It". Slag him at your peril; that guy can write some truly terrifying stuff.
7) Every time I read The Bible, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before. Actually, I'm just kidding. I've still not read most of the Bible. But I have read "A Room With A View" about 1498 times, so I guess I'm still finding new stuff there.
8) It is imperative that The Eight be made into a movie. Now. I am already picketing Hollywood for this—but if they cast Angelina Jolie or Amy Adams as Catherine Velis, I will not be happy. I will, however, be appeased if they cast some plucky, talented lady I've never heard of.
9) The Power of One is a book that should never be made (or should have never been made) into a film.
10) After all these years, the scene in the book/movie "Jacob's Ladder" where Tim Robbins' face goes all blurry in the mirror still manages to give me the queebs.
11) After all these years, pretty much any scene in the book "Frenchman's Creek" by Daphne DuMaurier still manages to give me a thrill. Oh, and when Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy tells Elizabeth Bennett how much he "ardently admires and loves" her. Sigh.
12) If I could corner the author Robert James Waller, here’s what I’d say to them one minute or less about their book, The Bridges of Madison County: "Your book stunk. It had no redeeming features. As a bookseller, I was embarrassed to sell it; in fact I actively tried to prevent customers from buying it. It came out over 15 years ago but I still grit my teeth with rage when I think of how crappy your writing is." Actually, I'm way too polite to say that. But oh, how I wish I could.
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is The Size of the World. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to pack it up, pack it in, and start traveling 'round the globe.
Anyway, enough gushing. I've been kinda stuck lately on what to write about here, so I'm doing the following meme, courtesy of Kate's other blog. If you like it, paste it into your own blogs and do it too...
The Dread Crew Meme
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose? Companion: Allan Breck Stuart from R.L. Stevenson's "Kidnapped" (he's brave, resourceful, and sexy to boot.)Vehicle: The Giant Peach from "James & the Giant Peach" (Roald Dahl)
Tool: One Ring to Rule Them All, of course!
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why? Into any of Charles de Lint's Newford stories. I've wanted to love in his world (and specifically in his fictional city of Newford) ever since I first read "Memory & Dream". Folk musicians, good friends, artists, dreams, danger and lashings of magic. What's not to love?
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why? Rupert Campbell-Black, from Jilly Cooper's "Riders", "Rivals", etc series. He'd be impossible, but never, ever boring. Or Lord Peter Wimsey. Hmmm.
4) The War For the Oaks (Emma Bull) is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four. In fact, the only book I have ever literally finished reading and begun to read again. Immediately.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable? George, of The Famous Five. She got to dress like a boy, had a dog, and solved mysteries with her 3 cousins all the time.
6) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most frightening? Pennywise the clown in Stephen King's "It". Slag him at your peril; that guy can write some truly terrifying stuff.
7) Every time I read The Bible, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before. Actually, I'm just kidding. I've still not read most of the Bible. But I have read "A Room With A View" about 1498 times, so I guess I'm still finding new stuff there.
8) It is imperative that The Eight be made into a movie. Now. I am already picketing Hollywood for this—but if they cast Angelina Jolie or Amy Adams as Catherine Velis, I will not be happy. I will, however, be appeased if they cast some plucky, talented lady I've never heard of.
9) The Power of One is a book that should never be made (or should have never been made) into a film.
10) After all these years, the scene in the book/movie "Jacob's Ladder" where Tim Robbins' face goes all blurry in the mirror still manages to give me the queebs.
11) After all these years, pretty much any scene in the book "Frenchman's Creek" by Daphne DuMaurier still manages to give me a thrill. Oh, and when Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy tells Elizabeth Bennett how much he "ardently admires and loves" her. Sigh.
12) If I could corner the author Robert James Waller, here’s what I’d say to them one minute or less about their book, The Bridges of Madison County: "Your book stunk. It had no redeeming features. As a bookseller, I was embarrassed to sell it; in fact I actively tried to prevent customers from buying it. It came out over 15 years ago but I still grit my teeth with rage when I think of how crappy your writing is." Actually, I'm way too polite to say that. But oh, how I wish I could.
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is The Size of the World. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to pack it up, pack it in, and start traveling 'round the globe.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Stylin'
Ever have those days where nothing, absolutely nothing in the closet feels or looks right?
I think it's partly the changing of the seasons, especially the summer-to-fall transition. We had an especially hot summer, where basically going around naked, or as close to it as possible, was the only solution. Now Fall -and a job- is here, and I have to wear things again. Real things. Things that, you know, co-ordinate. And I'm looking at all the stuff in my closet and it looks bloody terrible. Worn-out or childish or ill-fitting or just plain what-was-I-thinking? Being someone who um, fluctuates in size (and taste) from time to time doesn't help either.
The bottom line: when my next cheque comes in, I need to stock up on some cheap-yet-professional looking clothes that flatter my curvy figure while not looking as if I'm wearing a sack. If nothing else, it'll be a nice change from my jeans/cowboyhat/neon orange sweatshirt I have to wear at the Pumpkin Patch. Now that's a flattering ensemble!
I think it's partly the changing of the seasons, especially the summer-to-fall transition. We had an especially hot summer, where basically going around naked, or as close to it as possible, was the only solution. Now Fall -and a job- is here, and I have to wear things again. Real things. Things that, you know, co-ordinate. And I'm looking at all the stuff in my closet and it looks bloody terrible. Worn-out or childish or ill-fitting or just plain what-was-I-thinking? Being someone who um, fluctuates in size (and taste) from time to time doesn't help either.
The bottom line: when my next cheque comes in, I need to stock up on some cheap-yet-professional looking clothes that flatter my curvy figure while not looking as if I'm wearing a sack. If nothing else, it'll be a nice change from my jeans/cowboyhat/neon orange sweatshirt I have to wear at the Pumpkin Patch. Now that's a flattering ensemble!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Re-Vamp
In an effort to avoid some composing work, I've tweaked my blog header a bit, thus wasting a good hour and a half! Inspired by the wonderful ladies at Shutter Sisters, who pointed me in the direction of a really fun Polaroid app, I've put up some of my favorite pictures of my 'hood, taken by moi over the past couple of years. Not only did I mess with the wonderful Rollip to create the faux-Polaroid look, I also had to download Picasa to create the collage effect. Do you like it?
*clears throat and waits anxiously for non-existent feedback*
Just think of all the useful things I'm learning while I'm avoiding doing the real work I should be doing! At this rate, I'll be a graphic designer before long...
*clears throat and waits anxiously for non-existent feedback*
Just think of all the useful things I'm learning while I'm avoiding doing the real work I should be doing! At this rate, I'll be a graphic designer before long...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Lying Fallow.
The last few months have been quiet ones for me.
Not a lot of work- except for the part-time work in August, I haven't done a lot since the spring. I don't count gigs and band rehearsals, since they are barely paid and sporadic.
Not a lot of socializing- other than the Nova Scotia trip, we've kept to ourselves.
Not a lot of exercise, which I'm trying to change by starting to run again.
Every day I troll the internet, looking for work that I could live with, at least until the next theatre contract. I send emails into the ether: I am a composer, answering your job listing, here is my website and hear resounding silence. I email the director of my next theatre project: here are some sketches, when do we start and hear almost nothing back.
I am making this quiet time count for something. I cook and learn and cook some more. My eating- out bills have dropped. (Although my weight hasn't. Funny, that.) I have written some fine songs, songs I'm really proud of. I weigh my options and try to figure out where to go next.
But I feel a little bit like the Invisible Woman right now.
Not a lot of work- except for the part-time work in August, I haven't done a lot since the spring. I don't count gigs and band rehearsals, since they are barely paid and sporadic.
Not a lot of socializing- other than the Nova Scotia trip, we've kept to ourselves.
Not a lot of exercise, which I'm trying to change by starting to run again.
Every day I troll the internet, looking for work that I could live with, at least until the next theatre contract. I send emails into the ether: I am a composer, answering your job listing, here is my website and hear resounding silence. I email the director of my next theatre project: here are some sketches, when do we start and hear almost nothing back.
I am making this quiet time count for something. I cook and learn and cook some more. My eating- out bills have dropped. (Although my weight hasn't. Funny, that.) I have written some fine songs, songs I'm really proud of. I weigh my options and try to figure out where to go next.
But I feel a little bit like the Invisible Woman right now.
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