My Awkward Age
Don't get me wrong. 31 has been great. My Year of Shakespeare. One comedy, one tragedy. One play to span late spring and early summer. One to urge me bloody-handed into fall.
Oh, and October 2013!
Don't get me started on you, darling October, you fire-leafed love of a month! You have been blessed. You have been adventurous and wonderful and bizarre and danged funny too. And that's not EVEN counting the rehearsals.
You will end at midnight tonight, October 2013, but for as long as I have faculty for thought, I will remember you fondly. You threshold month.
I didn't get much writing done, did I?
Sigh.
One of my teachers in high school told me I couldn't be an actor and a writer. That I'd have to choose. I hated him for that. I stewed for months and made vile puns on his name and stomped around defiantly and swore to prove him wrong.
And then, in college, running out of money and time, when I had to break my double major into a major and minor instead, I felt like he'd won. That I did have to choose. And that I chose writing over acting. And it broke my heart.
Not permanently. One of those little deaths, you know? (No, not THAT kind.) Oh, and it galled me that something so frivolous could hurt so much.
The stupid, frivolous, selfish, tender things that hurt us.
And for the rest of my twenties after graduating, I did treat theatre as one would treat a minor.
My work and commute schedule never permitted me to be in rehearsals for a standard show. I had to squeeze in 24-hour festivals and solo performances when I could. And organize readings and open mics at the bookstores. And attend conventions. At least there I might display dramatically my own story-poems and excerpts for a larger public than whoever I managed to snag long-distance on a telephone and yammer into their ears my latest opus. Bringing all my training to bear.
And it was not for nothing.
But it wasn't… what I wanted.
I wrote in a poem once, a not-very-good poem, but an at-the-moment poem, which is useful for looking back on years later, like right now:
"…And Stephanie Shaw told me today:
“So, I didn’t like the play -
But I liked to you watch you play
And thank you, anyway
Now I’ve got you pegged for a Shakespearean.”
I remember how, in high school,
All I wanted was to spout some Shakespeare from a stage
Maybe sing a little Sondheim for time to time
His trenchant wit, his triple rhyme…"
And I never did have that in my twenties! But now I do. The Sh'peare.
And I am happy. I am happy living with a roommate, and not alone. (Which is not to say I wasn't happy alone. But I am no longer interested in solitude. I wonder if I shall be again? I cannot say.) I am happy that my roommate is my beautiful mother, who I missed for 10 long years. I love the care involved. Taking care and being taken care of. The shared meals. The camaraderie. I love that she gets to see me in plays - when before I had to describe everything for her in detail over hurriedly snatched cell phone dates, and email her my blogs to boot.
I love sharing a car, and being able to get myself to things like rehearsals in a timely manner, depending not on trains and buses. Not that there are many here to depend on. (Chicago, there are things I miss about you still. Mostly the people. But also the public transportation.)
I love insinuating myself into this theatre. This community-driven, text-loving Flock Theatre of New London. With its professionals and its puppets and its storage units and its experimentation and its great risks and great welcome.
Even though it costs me something in writing.
And maybe what I just have to know about myself is that I cannot be a writer and an actor AT THE SAME TIME. But the year is long, and I'm not in shows always.
Right now it's… I'm trying to find that balance. Failing, mostly. Thrashing. But not - quite - drowning. I'll get there, I think. But it's awkward. I have to do better. I will do better.
And I'm at an awkward age too! For theatre. At least, this theatre.
Before I felt this weirdness mostly at work, where people were so much younger or so much older than myself. 17 year olds and 70 year olds, with a few older parents in the middle, and then myself. But I have a coworker now who is just a couple years younger than myself, and a mother of two boys, who is more of a peer, and that's a big relief.
Then, in my new writers' group (okay, we haven't been able to meet all that often, the whole four of us, what with rehearsals and work and families and things), "The Amateurs," we are all in our late twenties - late thirties, so I'm more among peers there than I have been for the nearly-two-years since I moved from Chicago. I know more mothers now as peers than I ever did in Chicago. That's… different.
Different than Chicago, and that wild artist set. Though now more and more they are beginning to have kids too. Not all. But some.
Not my priority. Never was. But useful to know new parents. They keep the race going. They're doing the work. My job is to write books. And I… I will be doing that again shortly. Let me get through this one-weekend run first.
Tangent much? I was talking about being at an awkward age for this theatre.
Rehearsals brought to bear that I'm still sort of hanging out in the middle. There are the youngling actors, 12-20ish, many of them en route to college or military, making their transition from teen-actors to adults. Sort of phasing out, but shining. Then there are the more mature craftspeople, 40-60's, whose families (if they have them) are mostly grown up, whose careers are either well in hand or behind them.
And then me, still kind of a n00b, trying to find my community. I find the young actors adorable and cheeky, but their focus and mine don't really jive. And the older actors, well… I'm just not there yet. They are something to look up to. To befriend as I can. But all so busy, with full lives of their own.
But the community is there, I think, for the finding. I'm getting there. And beginning to thrive. But… awkwardly.
I know I'm not the only one to feel this way. And I know that artists often feel like outsiders. Even amongst a bunch of other artists. And I know that community takes time. I haven't even known these people a full year yet.
It usually takes a year.
It always has.
I know that. I know that I know that.
What I'm trying to say, in this roundabout, end-of-month, rambly kind of way, is…
I'm happy. I'm tentative. I'm awkward. I like my October-red hair, and so do my co-actors -- even if some of my coworkers don't.
I'm really going to love turning 32 in December and seeing where all this newness takes me, should all things continue strong - "an the creek don't rise…"
***
Oh, and October 2013!
Don't get me started on you, darling October, you fire-leafed love of a month! You have been blessed. You have been adventurous and wonderful and bizarre and danged funny too. And that's not EVEN counting the rehearsals.
You will end at midnight tonight, October 2013, but for as long as I have faculty for thought, I will remember you fondly. You threshold month.
I didn't get much writing done, did I?
Sigh.
One of my teachers in high school told me I couldn't be an actor and a writer. That I'd have to choose. I hated him for that. I stewed for months and made vile puns on his name and stomped around defiantly and swore to prove him wrong.
And then, in college, running out of money and time, when I had to break my double major into a major and minor instead, I felt like he'd won. That I did have to choose. And that I chose writing over acting. And it broke my heart.
Not permanently. One of those little deaths, you know? (No, not THAT kind.) Oh, and it galled me that something so frivolous could hurt so much.
The stupid, frivolous, selfish, tender things that hurt us.
And for the rest of my twenties after graduating, I did treat theatre as one would treat a minor.
My work and commute schedule never permitted me to be in rehearsals for a standard show. I had to squeeze in 24-hour festivals and solo performances when I could. And organize readings and open mics at the bookstores. And attend conventions. At least there I might display dramatically my own story-poems and excerpts for a larger public than whoever I managed to snag long-distance on a telephone and yammer into their ears my latest opus. Bringing all my training to bear.
And it was not for nothing.
But it wasn't… what I wanted.
I wrote in a poem once, a not-very-good poem, but an at-the-moment poem, which is useful for looking back on years later, like right now:
"…And Stephanie Shaw told me today:
“So, I didn’t like the play -
But I liked to you watch you play
And thank you, anyway
Now I’ve got you pegged for a Shakespearean.”
I remember how, in high school,
All I wanted was to spout some Shakespeare from a stage
Maybe sing a little Sondheim for time to time
His trenchant wit, his triple rhyme…"
And I never did have that in my twenties! But now I do. The Sh'peare.
And I am happy. I am happy living with a roommate, and not alone. (Which is not to say I wasn't happy alone. But I am no longer interested in solitude. I wonder if I shall be again? I cannot say.) I am happy that my roommate is my beautiful mother, who I missed for 10 long years. I love the care involved. Taking care and being taken care of. The shared meals. The camaraderie. I love that she gets to see me in plays - when before I had to describe everything for her in detail over hurriedly snatched cell phone dates, and email her my blogs to boot.
I love sharing a car, and being able to get myself to things like rehearsals in a timely manner, depending not on trains and buses. Not that there are many here to depend on. (Chicago, there are things I miss about you still. Mostly the people. But also the public transportation.)
I love insinuating myself into this theatre. This community-driven, text-loving Flock Theatre of New London. With its professionals and its puppets and its storage units and its experimentation and its great risks and great welcome.
Even though it costs me something in writing.
And maybe what I just have to know about myself is that I cannot be a writer and an actor AT THE SAME TIME. But the year is long, and I'm not in shows always.
Right now it's… I'm trying to find that balance. Failing, mostly. Thrashing. But not - quite - drowning. I'll get there, I think. But it's awkward. I have to do better. I will do better.
And I'm at an awkward age too! For theatre. At least, this theatre.
Before I felt this weirdness mostly at work, where people were so much younger or so much older than myself. 17 year olds and 70 year olds, with a few older parents in the middle, and then myself. But I have a coworker now who is just a couple years younger than myself, and a mother of two boys, who is more of a peer, and that's a big relief.
Then, in my new writers' group (okay, we haven't been able to meet all that often, the whole four of us, what with rehearsals and work and families and things), "The Amateurs," we are all in our late twenties - late thirties, so I'm more among peers there than I have been for the nearly-two-years since I moved from Chicago. I know more mothers now as peers than I ever did in Chicago. That's… different.
Different than Chicago, and that wild artist set. Though now more and more they are beginning to have kids too. Not all. But some.
Not my priority. Never was. But useful to know new parents. They keep the race going. They're doing the work. My job is to write books. And I… I will be doing that again shortly. Let me get through this one-weekend run first.
Tangent much? I was talking about being at an awkward age for this theatre.
Rehearsals brought to bear that I'm still sort of hanging out in the middle. There are the youngling actors, 12-20ish, many of them en route to college or military, making their transition from teen-actors to adults. Sort of phasing out, but shining. Then there are the more mature craftspeople, 40-60's, whose families (if they have them) are mostly grown up, whose careers are either well in hand or behind them.
And then me, still kind of a n00b, trying to find my community. I find the young actors adorable and cheeky, but their focus and mine don't really jive. And the older actors, well… I'm just not there yet. They are something to look up to. To befriend as I can. But all so busy, with full lives of their own.
But the community is there, I think, for the finding. I'm getting there. And beginning to thrive. But… awkwardly.
I know I'm not the only one to feel this way. And I know that artists often feel like outsiders. Even amongst a bunch of other artists. And I know that community takes time. I haven't even known these people a full year yet.
It usually takes a year.
It always has.
I know that. I know that I know that.
What I'm trying to say, in this roundabout, end-of-month, rambly kind of way, is…
I'm happy. I'm tentative. I'm awkward. I like my October-red hair, and so do my co-actors -- even if some of my coworkers don't.
I'm really going to love turning 32 in December and seeing where all this newness takes me, should all things continue strong - "an the creek don't rise…"
***