I Faked It ‘Till I Broke It
I didn’t fake it very well, mind you. I’m not a good liar—not really experienced in it, rarely see the reason for it—but when you have anxiety and feel inhibited by a non-credible face, being “true to yourself” would be screaming until you passed out. Sometimes you have to pretend to feel comfortable to ever get comfortable.
As a young child, I had a fibbing problem and
my mother never let me forget it. Even into adulthood she assumes I’m lying, or
worse, misinterpreting reality every time I bring a problem to her attention.
In high school, my teachers would never offer me responsibility. Sure, I would have less work to do, but I was never one of the students entrusted with something important. I was a slacker, a rogue agent, and couldn't be trusted with keys or leadership, or important opportunities.
In college, my professors would have
departmentals in which the first week of class they forced all the freshmen to
get up and audition before the entire department. There was no real reason for
this—they were trying to mimic other schools in California, better schools, where
you needed to apply specifically to major in theatre—and they used it to judge
you for the rest of your days. The seniors hazed freshmen by giving them
unflattering nicknames during this time (I wasn't even important enough to get one), while the faculty decided then and
there how good of an actor you are for the rest of your life. To them, acting was
a natural talent, not a skill trained with practice—an extremely problematic
thing for a teacher to believe.
In my career, I’d be a young professional who
graduated with a degree in theatre, practicing for over a decade, when some old
retired carpenter or lawyer popped in, deciding he was going to take charge
despite not knowing one thing about the job. I was baby faced and a small
woman; obviously I needed to be instructed and supervised in the proper ways to
wrap the wires and paint the set.
Credibility became increasingly important. I’d
have naïve amateurs be better trusted than me due to age or aggression,
delusion, whatever. They played the game. They acted with unfounded confidence. It worked for them. All I wanted to be able to walk into a room and have people not
question me on stupid shit.
“You used an adverb!”
Yes. Yes, I did.
When people question me, I want it to be
relevant, important to them, a genuine opinion, not one based on retroactively
proving what they already want to feel. When I do something different than how
they would, I would like it if they took a moment, just a moment, to think,
“Why is she doing it that way? What does she know that I don’t?” instead of
spouting, “IT’S NOT DONE THAT WAY, FOOL!”
People who bent over backwards to obey the selfish demands of narcissistic amateurs would turn around and question every trivial decision I made, none of which had anything to do with them, many of which had nothing to do with anything. I felt prematurely judged, my credibility based far more on what someone wanted to think than what I had actually done.
People who bent over backwards to obey the selfish demands of narcissistic amateurs would turn around and question every trivial decision I made, none of which had anything to do with them, many of which had nothing to do with anything. I felt prematurely judged, my credibility based far more on what someone wanted to think than what I had actually done.
I tell the story about the agent and author
who, reading the same pages, gave me the best compliment of my life: “I know
you know what you’re doing,” while a third author that same day said, “This is
obviously a first draft.” This story genuinely makes me laugh, (hysteria) the
huge discrepancy behind their reactions to the same pages (at that time the
fourth draft of my thirteenth? Fifteenth? manuscript). It happens frequently enough
it just cements my belief there is no such thing as a “good” book, only one
that works for a certain number of people.
It’s a struggle. In high school, I merely
assumed I was going to do well in my life, like everyone. When college came
around, I, like everyone, had a bit of a reality check. Getting what you want
requires critical evaluation—of you, of those around you, of history, or your
work, and pretty much everything you could possibly be effected by. You can’t
just exist and have God or destiny do the rest of the work.
I was sick of having concepts that people loved
while being held back by my half-bakery. But there was a contradictory problem in that the extra steps of polishing are often
achieved by meeting expectation while the concepts were good because they defied
it. Can someone “learn the rules to
learn to break them?” Of course, but at times, I started to realize it’s less
about how you break them and far more about already having trust.
Context matters. Reputation matters. Even if
it’s not an end-all, no one will deny those things are influential.
I asked my professors, “How do you know if a
play is just different from what you expect and you should give it a second
chance, or when it’s just a load of bullshit?”
“That’s just something you learn with time.”
“What do
you learn with time? How do you know, you, my professor, that Beckett is ‘just
over my head,’ and my fellow student is just writing a blob of gibberish? What if he's really the next Ionesco and we're just prematurely judging him? I wouldn't be able to see the merit in Bald Soprano if he was just some unknown writer looking for a break. So how do you know? How,
outside of someone telling you?”
They could never answer me, and it seemed their
hypocrisy was prolific. Masters could break the so-called rules, but masters were defined by someone important claiming that’s what they
were. In other words, you could hand them a script with no name on it, and
their reaction would be completely different than if it had awards and
accolades, despite doing the exact same thing.
It meant that no matter what I wrote, I was
always going to be a hack in their eyes. They “knew me when.”
Trying to improve your skills is incredibly
difficult in that sort of setting, when who they want you to be affects their
criticism so drastically. What is good writing? What does it mean when
something works?
And in a way, critiques are like Schrodinger’s
cat: an idea isn’t bad or good until after
you’ve implemented it. Would your novella be improved if you lengthened it?
Could you make it better by just tweaking what you have now? Even if your book
is good now, could it be enhanced in a different direction?
A book isn’t limited to an original vision, but
it also can be hurt by making it what it isn’t. In many cases, it’s more the
issue of execution; you never know what will come out until you reach in elbow
deep and rework it with bloody hands.
I did not always have anxiety. As a teenager,
very little fazed me. I’ve always been sensitive to my emotions, but built up
walls since elementary school. I was shy with strangers, but unaware of it due
to growing up in a small town. I was dense to other people’s feelings and could
be naively callous, but at least things didn’t eat away with me. I wasn’t
consumed with worry.
Since college, I focused on making a good first
impression, the issue being that judgment comes from wanting to judge. I was
being told that my credibility was a harmed by silly little things like
adverbs. Hoping to maintain a semblance of self and opinion, knowing full well
that it often wasn’t the so-called rule breaking that bothered them—if not
adverbs, it’d be the 10 dollar verbs—I struggled with my ego and instinct, combating
the question of “How do I look professional while still being creative?”
Today, five years after my complete overhaul of
principles, I am a good person and a better writer with a fuller understanding
of the rules, playing the game, being true to yourself, and what I actually
care about. I like who I am. I just don’t like how I feel. And I find the things I'm creating aren't as impactful, interesting, and different.
I worry a lot. About nothing. When someone
gives me criticism that rings untrue, I struggle to let go of it. What if I'm missing something? “Put a pin in
it,” I say. While mulling it over for years has gained me great understanding,
it does affect my ability to live in the present, take risks, and simply not be
bothered by comments I find foolish.
A friend of mine, a gorgeous girl who was
idolized by many around her, told me should thought herself broken. I didn’t
really understand what she meant at the time, but sometimes I too feel unable
to cope with silly things that don’t seem to faze anyone else.
Where did my younger self go? Can I get her
back? Can I keep who I am now, still improving my professionalism while not
being so worried about what other people are thinking? Those of you who read my
blog frequently have heard me say it before, but achieving that balance is my
most sought after goal.
There’s something to be said for faking it.
People see you as they want to see you, and your presentation of self can
strongly influence your creative freedom. But take pleasure in your qualities
right now because you might find, after years and years of self-improvement,
that you lost a little bit of yourself along the way, and you’ll miss that
person from time to time.
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