Inspiration Sandwich

On Friday I went to the see the Clockwork Theatre's reading of "Red Masquerade." Clockwork is that Theatre Company that those guys I went to school with started a few years ago. "Red Masquerade" is a new play that was written by one of my old professors. They were doing a reading of it at Theatre Row, starring four of my old classmates, one (kind of two) of my ex-boyfriends, and one of my old professors. It was also directed by a former professor of mine.

Suffice it to say, when we went to the Irish Rogue after the show, I answered the, "So, what are you up to now" question a lot.

By now I have the, "Hey, remember that show I was in" story down, but to my utter chagrin, my answer still had traces of insecurity. That shaky little tone in my voice when I say, "Other than that, I'm just working at the restaurant. Yep, the same one. You know, makin' money."

Then on Saturday night I was watching interviews with the cast of Star Wars on YouTube, and I entered FrustrationLand. It's that place where 23 seems like 45, and all your accomplishments look like absolutely nothing, and the golden years of your life are slipping away from you at top speed, and here you are helpless to do anything about it, and you're going to be working in a restaurant for the rest of your life.

Sunday I went to work.

And Monday I went to a BBQ at Mom and Dad's house, and talked with my family about my career. Or lack thereof.

God love every one of my family and friends for their support, but if one more person asks me, "Why don't you get an agent?" like I could just waltz into Pathmark and pick one up in aisle seven, I don't know what I'm going to do.

Look people, it's not that easy.

And this early in my career (and yes, Virginia, two years in is still early) it's not really that smart.

I still have college credits on my resume. Signing with an agent means I wouldn't be able to work on anything without that agent's consent. At this juncture, it still benefits me to be free-lance. It's just fucking HARD.

Because the real appeal of an agent is the thought that it's some big suit in an ivory tower with Speilberg on the Rolodex who's going to do all the work, and all I have to do is sit in my apartment drinking Cool-Aid and eating Pop-Tarts, and wait for the phone to ring and the work to come rolling in.

Not how it works.

So last night when I got home, rather than go out to the bar with Sarah, I sat down with my copy of Backstage and my "Working Actor" books, and I jumped into the Inspiration River.

Head first.

Okay. This is my "Wall of Inspiration" collage. I started it about six months ago. It's full of pictures of artists whose work inspires me. Kate Winslet, Tina Fey, Ellen Degeneres, Chloe Sevigny, Nicole Kidman, Jason Segel, Johnny Depp.

There are theatre tickets along the top and around the side, pictures of me, quotes, my pay stubs. That sort of thing.

It's on my closet door, so I see it every day.

I added a whole mess of things to it last night. I wrote all over every free space I could find, and destroyed my April issue of Vanity Fair, the one with Paul Rudd, Jason Segel, Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill on the cover.

Here are a few more pictures: