On Risk and Rejection, Part 17
Which, ironically, is my lucky number, but not in this case. :-( I can say that I don't care when my plays are rejected, that it's just part of the natural evolution of the artistic process, but it's bullshit, because I really, really do care and it hurts like hell. I want my plays to be accepted. I want them to be accepted so damned badly. I can barely think of anything else. There are so many other things in my life that continue to disappoint or frustrate me. It's hard for me to accept, for example, that I am 42 years old and may never marry anyone, or even have a serious boyfriend or companion. It is hard to accept that I am in serious debt and may never own my own condo. It is hard to accept that I work my butt off and yet make far less money than most people with a master's degree, and have to work two additional jobs just to pay my bills. It is hard to accept that I am not beautiful (well, in my eyes, anyway), that I can't get thin (not thin enough, anyway), that I am lonely much of the time, that my sister, whom I'm incredibly close to, lives in Florida and she and my adorable niece and nephew will most likely never live near me and the rest of my family.
These and other things are hard to accept, and sometimes I feel better and am able to say, Well, I'm trying, things have improved over the last several years, and I can deal. But what I simply CANNOT deal with, pure and simple, is rejection. It hurts. It tears at the soul. It makes one question one's self, one's ability to write, to be an artist, and makes one wonder whether the rejection is worth it in the short and long run. This is a tired refrain, and I understand this, but dammit it all to hell, will it ever get easier?! I am so happy for my playwright friends who are getting their plays accepted by festivals, but at the same time I find it crushing that my plays are NOT receiving a favorable response. (And it's not like I'm trying for the Pulitzer Prize or anything, trust me.) I think my plays are pretty good, maybe better than good. I absolutely think they are worthy of getting a reading, if not a full production. Apparently, others do not feel the same way. Yes, I have heard a thousand times that rejection is part of the process, that being an artist is process as well as product, that if you're creating and submitting (or auditioning), you're going to get rejected, and get used to it. I'm sorry. I can't. I just can't. It hurts like hell. AND I THINK IT'S OKAY THAT IT HURTS LIKE HELL. In fact, if it DIDN'T hurt like hell, then why would I even bother trying?
When you think about it, who tries for things that aren't important? Who puts themselves out for something unimportant? And yet, b/c it means so much, that just means it hurts all the more when the rejection email arrives. Oh, sure, there were hundreds of submissions, all were strong, and it was so hard to make a decision, and please try again, and please, stop me from gagging on your insincerity. Just say it: We didn't like your play. In fact, we don't think you're a very good playwright. Keep trying to submit, but we'll continue turning you down. Thanks, and have a great day. Oh, and don't forget to add, YOU BIG FAT LOSER, b/c we're all thinking it, anyway. Am I bitter? Of course, God knows I am, as well as desperately sad. I need to turn the corner. I need to get to the place where it doesn't hurt anymore, where I can depersonalize it, but I don't know how to! How do you turn that bloody corner and continue proceeding? How do you truly internalize that information and feel less affected? And this means that I can't (for the most part) attend festivals in which my plays have been rejected, because the pain is too great, too searing.
I know my plays are terribly unimportant in the scheme of things. Family counts, health counts, safety and basic creature comforts count, and I know this, I truly do. But I need to have something to feel proud about it, and if it isn't achieved through my writing, well, what the hell will bring me this pride? Plus I've known in my heart all of my life that I wanted to write. I've toyed with acting for a number of years, and I've found that it isn't natural, it's something I enjoy, sometimes something I do fairly well, but it isn't going to pay the bills, and far more importantly, I certainly can't count on it. I can say I act, but I can never, ever say I'm an actor. But writing? That's different. I wrote my first play when I was nine, my first journal entry at seven or eight, my first lengthy short story at 10, and God knows when I wrote my first poem, but it was probably at around six, when I first really learned how to write. And I haven't stopped since. But the thing about plays are that they are of little use if they aren't being seen and heard, being produced, that is, because they don't work too well on the page, unlike plays and short stories. So if my plays continue to sit on my computer or are in photocopies in the hands of disinterested theatre professionals, what the hell is the point?
Adding to my discouragement is the fact that lately I've seen what I consider some pretty mediocre plays that got rave reviews in the Boston Globe. Now the Globe isn't the be-all, end-all of theatre criticism, but I typically agree with their critiques, and I thoroughly disagreed with their reviews of both True West and The Sisters Rosensweig, neither of which I cared for. True West seemed unbelievable, while Sisters was cliched and far too glib for my taste. I didn't like Theatre District or Carol Mulroney much better, but they showed more promise and more originality, at least to my and my theatre-going friend. And these plays are getting first-rate productions at first-rate theatres. I can't get my lowly little plays taken by community theatre companies outside of Boston! I mean, what the hell is wrong with me and my writing? And again, I have to ask, when is this going to stop hurting so much? If I thought I was putting out crap, well, that would be different, and of course I'd cease doing so. But I've had respected friends give my work thumbs up, and yet...nothing. Not a damned thing. I am starting to believe that the one play that did get a reading and will be produced in the summer was a lucky break, and I can't handle that. Writing has preoccuped me, and maybe I need to just stop thinking about it completely until I'm doing it. I certainly have to stop thinking about submissions, because it's putting a stake in my heart. But oh, the validation feels so wonderful! What do I do well? Do I do anything well?
Sometimes I feel like I'm just going to roll up into a ball and get thrown away, or disappear into little bits in the stratosphere, never to be heard from again. Melodramatic? Of course, but that's how I feel, in addition to contending with the anger that constantly gnaws at me and threatens to take over. I am so angry, angry, angry, and of course very, very sad. Please, some theatre, take my writing and allow my work to be presented. Allow me the small sense of satisfaction this would cause. It's a good thing the gym exists, because I think I would take a hammer and smash all the walls in my apartment if I didn't have an outlet for my rage, barely repressed and constantly threatening to surface. Tomorrow I meet with my new financial advisor (a fancy name for someone in finance who is willing to stop a ship from sinking), who will help me right the wrongs I have caused in my willful spending over the past several years. My therapist is trying to help me with my negativity, but I guess I have a really, really long way to go. So if you are a fellow playwright, please know that I respect you, and have nothing but praise for your work, but I find the process of submitting contemptible, although a clearly necessary evil. I avoid dating because the results of a date gone bad can put me in a funk for days; I don't want the same to be the case with writing and applying to festivals. But I don't know if I can take the perpetual blows to the ego. I guess I need some virtual hugs, stet. And in the meantime, the gym welcomes me, and thank GOD for that. And a couple of movies tonight, and some popcorn, and a good night's rest, and if I'm lucky, no throbbing music from the neighbors below, like last night, and last weekend (and no, they could care less that it's bothering me, b/c I've asked them politely to turn the music down, and they refuse to do so). Dammit, I need a break. When will I get one? Or how I will make one happen? And what happens if I don't get a break? When will the pain go away? Will it ever truly leave?
These and other things are hard to accept, and sometimes I feel better and am able to say, Well, I'm trying, things have improved over the last several years, and I can deal. But what I simply CANNOT deal with, pure and simple, is rejection. It hurts. It tears at the soul. It makes one question one's self, one's ability to write, to be an artist, and makes one wonder whether the rejection is worth it in the short and long run. This is a tired refrain, and I understand this, but dammit it all to hell, will it ever get easier?! I am so happy for my playwright friends who are getting their plays accepted by festivals, but at the same time I find it crushing that my plays are NOT receiving a favorable response. (And it's not like I'm trying for the Pulitzer Prize or anything, trust me.) I think my plays are pretty good, maybe better than good. I absolutely think they are worthy of getting a reading, if not a full production. Apparently, others do not feel the same way. Yes, I have heard a thousand times that rejection is part of the process, that being an artist is process as well as product, that if you're creating and submitting (or auditioning), you're going to get rejected, and get used to it. I'm sorry. I can't. I just can't. It hurts like hell. AND I THINK IT'S OKAY THAT IT HURTS LIKE HELL. In fact, if it DIDN'T hurt like hell, then why would I even bother trying?
When you think about it, who tries for things that aren't important? Who puts themselves out for something unimportant? And yet, b/c it means so much, that just means it hurts all the more when the rejection email arrives. Oh, sure, there were hundreds of submissions, all were strong, and it was so hard to make a decision, and please try again, and please, stop me from gagging on your insincerity. Just say it: We didn't like your play. In fact, we don't think you're a very good playwright. Keep trying to submit, but we'll continue turning you down. Thanks, and have a great day. Oh, and don't forget to add, YOU BIG FAT LOSER, b/c we're all thinking it, anyway. Am I bitter? Of course, God knows I am, as well as desperately sad. I need to turn the corner. I need to get to the place where it doesn't hurt anymore, where I can depersonalize it, but I don't know how to! How do you turn that bloody corner and continue proceeding? How do you truly internalize that information and feel less affected? And this means that I can't (for the most part) attend festivals in which my plays have been rejected, because the pain is too great, too searing.
I know my plays are terribly unimportant in the scheme of things. Family counts, health counts, safety and basic creature comforts count, and I know this, I truly do. But I need to have something to feel proud about it, and if it isn't achieved through my writing, well, what the hell will bring me this pride? Plus I've known in my heart all of my life that I wanted to write. I've toyed with acting for a number of years, and I've found that it isn't natural, it's something I enjoy, sometimes something I do fairly well, but it isn't going to pay the bills, and far more importantly, I certainly can't count on it. I can say I act, but I can never, ever say I'm an actor. But writing? That's different. I wrote my first play when I was nine, my first journal entry at seven or eight, my first lengthy short story at 10, and God knows when I wrote my first poem, but it was probably at around six, when I first really learned how to write. And I haven't stopped since. But the thing about plays are that they are of little use if they aren't being seen and heard, being produced, that is, because they don't work too well on the page, unlike plays and short stories. So if my plays continue to sit on my computer or are in photocopies in the hands of disinterested theatre professionals, what the hell is the point?
Adding to my discouragement is the fact that lately I've seen what I consider some pretty mediocre plays that got rave reviews in the Boston Globe. Now the Globe isn't the be-all, end-all of theatre criticism, but I typically agree with their critiques, and I thoroughly disagreed with their reviews of both True West and The Sisters Rosensweig, neither of which I cared for. True West seemed unbelievable, while Sisters was cliched and far too glib for my taste. I didn't like Theatre District or Carol Mulroney much better, but they showed more promise and more originality, at least to my and my theatre-going friend. And these plays are getting first-rate productions at first-rate theatres. I can't get my lowly little plays taken by community theatre companies outside of Boston! I mean, what the hell is wrong with me and my writing? And again, I have to ask, when is this going to stop hurting so much? If I thought I was putting out crap, well, that would be different, and of course I'd cease doing so. But I've had respected friends give my work thumbs up, and yet...nothing. Not a damned thing. I am starting to believe that the one play that did get a reading and will be produced in the summer was a lucky break, and I can't handle that. Writing has preoccuped me, and maybe I need to just stop thinking about it completely until I'm doing it. I certainly have to stop thinking about submissions, because it's putting a stake in my heart. But oh, the validation feels so wonderful! What do I do well? Do I do anything well?
Sometimes I feel like I'm just going to roll up into a ball and get thrown away, or disappear into little bits in the stratosphere, never to be heard from again. Melodramatic? Of course, but that's how I feel, in addition to contending with the anger that constantly gnaws at me and threatens to take over. I am so angry, angry, angry, and of course very, very sad. Please, some theatre, take my writing and allow my work to be presented. Allow me the small sense of satisfaction this would cause. It's a good thing the gym exists, because I think I would take a hammer and smash all the walls in my apartment if I didn't have an outlet for my rage, barely repressed and constantly threatening to surface. Tomorrow I meet with my new financial advisor (a fancy name for someone in finance who is willing to stop a ship from sinking), who will help me right the wrongs I have caused in my willful spending over the past several years. My therapist is trying to help me with my negativity, but I guess I have a really, really long way to go. So if you are a fellow playwright, please know that I respect you, and have nothing but praise for your work, but I find the process of submitting contemptible, although a clearly necessary evil. I avoid dating because the results of a date gone bad can put me in a funk for days; I don't want the same to be the case with writing and applying to festivals. But I don't know if I can take the perpetual blows to the ego. I guess I need some virtual hugs, stet. And in the meantime, the gym welcomes me, and thank GOD for that. And a couple of movies tonight, and some popcorn, and a good night's rest, and if I'm lucky, no throbbing music from the neighbors below, like last night, and last weekend (and no, they could care less that it's bothering me, b/c I've asked them politely to turn the music down, and they refuse to do so). Dammit, I need a break. When will I get one? Or how I will make one happen? And what happens if I don't get a break? When will the pain go away? Will it ever truly leave?
posted by Sue B at 3:10 PM
3 Comments:
I wish my arms could reach that far... *hugs*
You're awesome, Joe. Major cyber hugs back. Ironically, I rented "The Upside of Anger" before I got, well, not the rejection email but the absence of acceptance email (so, in this case, most likely the same thing, as it was earlier this week with another theatre company). And this movie is odd, but resonated, for obvious reasons (Joan Allen got MAD, and I felt for her and was proud of her at times for not being afraid to show the rage she felt). At the end of the movie, Evan Rachel Wood's character, Popeye (and don't ask me why she's named Popeye, as she's neither a sailor nor a man, and I don't recall her eating spinach, either), says that the upside of anger is that it allows you to become a different person, or at least to grow from the experience (I'm poorly paraphrasing here). Maybe so. I'd rather not be angry. I'd rather be happy. I guess it's a choice, but it's a lot easier said than done. Plus it helps if Kevin Costner wants to marry you. :-)
Dr. Seuss.
Keep on movin', SueB.
SOCK.
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