Several months ago, a friend of mine shared a post on Facebook. (Much of my time during the last month or so has been spent trolling the good ol' news feed reading articles about finding yourself, exploring your life options, ways to be happy, ways to combat depression, etc. I find that, while briefly informative, these snippets of articles and columns are about as fulfilling as....well, sitting around all day browsing through Facebook. This has necessitated several changes in my life, but again, more on that later.) This post was an exposition on Victor Frankl's seminal book Man's Search for Meaning, centering around how it's easy to become happy, but happiness is fleeting without a central context of meaning within our lives. For example, much of the idea around vacations providing happiness is centered in the anticipation leading up to going on a trip; we're happier just thinking about the idea of traveling and exploring somewhere new, or simply getting away from it all. Once we're on that vacation, however, the enthusiasm and anticipation are spent, resulting in an experience that may or may not live up to the high hopes and expectations of the trip. And then you return home, and it's as though nothing ever happened. (This is why I take mental health breaks as opposed to vacations; a trip back to Bowling Green to spend time with friends or to Dayton for auditions is as much a necessary part of keeping me sane as it is a social excursion) The only way to true happiness, the article states, is by finding fulfilling work or practices that provide a specter of meaning to your life.
As an artist, this resonates strongly for me, though I'm sure anyone between the ages of 22 and 32 would find similar implications. (Let alone everyone 32 and older, but because this is a discussion on the search for meaning as a twenty-something, I'll selfishly choose to focus on my own problems and personal quest for meaning. You're welcome.) I long ago decided that the only path for me in life was a path of creativity, giving back to society through art, literature, and other means of personal expression that are best implicated when shared. Hence this blog, The Addison Recorder, the Atlantean Chronicles, and my upcoming work with Free Shakespeare! this summer. The only times where I've felt truly content with myself is when I can take a look at my labors and see a tangible accomplishment, a record that states "I was here, I did this" and lasts.
Working with theatre, a temporal artistic medium, does have its shortcomings - low pay, an abrupt ending to proceedings once a show closes, a fear that while you're producing great work, the only people that are regarding your spectacle are like-minded associates and friends who would be there for you even if the piece you're working on is an outright turd - but the lasting resonance provided by quality theatre is beyond sustaining for me. I still remember the standing ovations given to my shorter piece "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!", the random strangers coming up to me in the cafeteria at the Student Union telling me about how "Harm's Way" was possibly the coolest piece of theatre they had ever seen, and citizens of Dayton stopping me in the streets to compliment my work in A Midsummer Night's Dream (my brief flirtation with celebrity). Those moments, while fleeting, self-aggrandizing, and entirely buoyed by being in the exact right place at the exact right time, remind me that I had done something, and that something I had done had affected other people enough to move them to greater desires. Whether simply entertaining them for an afternoon or changing their conceptions of what art can be, I had done something.
Thus, this creative rut I've entered into for the past year or so has been a trifle...well...depressing.
I don't want to suggest that I regret my choices in moving to Chicago. I knew there would be a bit of a dry spell wherein I adjusted to living on my own, supporting myself, interjecting myself into a massive, at-times-overwhelming, artistic community in a strange strange world, but I didn't nearly expect any of the turmoil that has rocked my world. I've always thought of life as a trajectory that I could control, where one project would lead to something bigger and better simply by applying grit, talent, and determination. (Most everyone my age feels the same way, which is why there's a wealth of articles out there about twentysomethings dealing with the discovery that life isn't laid out for you, and after college there are many years of self-discovery ahead of you, and all the trials and tribulations that come with it are a shared experience. That's why twentysomethings like bars so much.) The auditions I've been on here have been (to this point) mostly fruitless, fueled by my lack of familiarity with the world out here, as well as the fact that of my overall theatrical package, auditions are my weakest link.
Which, considering that they're somewhat required in order to make it as an actor, is rather unfortunate.
As I struggled to adapt to living on my own, I also had my expectations of attending graduate school in the back of my mind. I've chronicled my thoughts, dreams, and desires regarding that particular aspect of my life in entries prior, so I won't spend much time rehashing them here. I will say, though, that it remains my ambition to one day enter a graduate program and further my career as best as I can through higher education.
But, as we all discover quite often, plans change. Life has an uncanny ability to throw wrenches into the best laid plans of mice and men.
For much of winter, I awaited responses from all of the graduate programs I applied to. My first response, from the University of Idaho's Creative Writing Program, admitted me. This may have led me to generate a sense of false expectations with regards to my admission to other programs, false expectations that were mercilessly crushed one after another as the rejection letters and emails started pouring in.
When Illinois State contacted me requesting an interview for the second slot in their directing program, it came as a breath of fresh air. Interviewing with the faculty reminded me of my love for creating theatre, something that had been lost to me in the doldrums of the winter months in Chicago. I wasn't certain of my admission to the program, but I did feel strongly that I had put forth the best example of myself, communicating my passions and desires as an artist, and representing exactly who I was in the minds of the faculty.
Which was true. The email they sent me a week later indicated that they all strongly felt that I was an articulate, intelligent artist with the capacity for clear, creative thought.
Unfortunately, I'm also 26, a stranger in a strange land, and with a resume that, while strong, does not convey the same experiences that an older candidate would have accrued by now.
Rejection is a harsh word, and one that is not applicable to my situation; they went with a candidate that had more experience and they felt was at a better stage to enter their MFA program. However, my mind immediately jumped to that feeling of being turned down for a job after making it through to the final round.
It was at this point that any creative output I had for the time being dropped off the face of a cliff, to say the least.
Auditions for Free Shakespeare! were a pleasant reminder that I am not in a dark place; I have a wonderful project on the horizon, I will get to work with an immensely talented cast all summer long and a mind-blowing creative team, and (however small) I will be getting paid for my labors, a professional validation in my mind. The work itself is what provides meaning, however, and that's far more important to me.
With that being said, when you're down, you're down for a bit. And I relapsed into seasonal depression. (Not helped by the fact that it's April and as I sit here writing this piece, it's 40 degrees outside. What the shit, Chicago. What the shit.)
On my recent trip home, however, as I reached my lowest point sitting in my bedroom one night, I came to a realization that smacks of both obviousness and a sense of obliviousness to other problems in the world, as well as a slight tinge of self-actualization: I was neither beaten nor defeated.
I was not beaten in the sense that I did go through with applying to graduate school. Not getting in sucks, to be sure, but it's not because of a lack of qualifications. (Well, it is, but only experience; everything else is there.) I had not been reduced to a whimpering cur on the ground, nor was I told to stay away. I was not beaten.
I was not defeated because I have years and years ahead of me in which to ply my trade. Everything happens for a reason, and perhaps getting rejected by the graduate programs of my choice was the kick needed to shake me out of my self-inflicted doldrums. Maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed to shake up my life, re-actualize my dreams, and to go forth and prove to myself that I am, in fact, an artist.
(This is a slightly self-aware post, for those who hadn't caught on by now. As before, if that bothers you, I'd best leave now.)
The next day, I sold my car, my beloved Vera who has traveled tens of thousands of miles across this country, ferrying me to and fro. I don't need her at this point in my life, with the luxury that is the CTA right outside my doorway. (Well, luxury might be too strong a word...) With the proceeds, I did two things: I purchased a new laptop, a LONG overdue measure necessary to continuing my work as a writer, let along to live and work in a mostly virtual world of audition postings, job offers, and e-correspondance; I then opened a savings account, a long overdue goal that can be my fallback during the tougher times. I then resubscribed to American Theatre Magazine, another long overdue measure that will hopefully breath more life into my chosen pursuits, if only by living vicariously through artists across the nation.
And then I began the process of submitting my head shots and resumes to theatres around Chicago. This is a practice that I started to fall out of in the months following my mother's death, as well as the turbulent months that constituted my return to Chicago, where I began to piece together how to sustain myself on my own for the first time in my life, and further delayed by my application to graduate school.
It was then that I discovered that my seeking out graduate programs, while intending to advance my career, was actually hindering it slightly. I became obsessed with preparing myself for the application process, to the point of shoving aside nearly everything else in my life. (Except for Book 2 of the Atlantea Chronicles, which I intend to start revisions on sometime in May. But even that was only a temporary distraction.) I had even foregone auditioning, something that I promised myself I would throw myself into following my return to Chicago.
Well, given my history, I know this might be a premature statement, but no longer. As of this writing, we begin rehearsals for As You Like It in June; I have an audition with a prominent Chicago theatre next week (my first equity theatre audition); I am changing my daily routine so that the audition boards are the first thing I look at when I wake up in the morning; I am rehashing monologues and seeking out new material; I am networking at every available opportunity so as to boost my presence within the theatrical communities of Chicago; and I am resolving to take better care of myself.
In addition to my theatrical pursuits, I am starting work on a new novel, apart from the world of Atlantea. I'm beginning to stretch out tendrils into the realm of self-publishing, a market that I at first disregarded because of personal stigmas but which I am now seeing the possibilities within; I am continually revising the Atlantean Chronicles as they are written, with an eye towards first e-publishing and then later putting forth tangible copies for distribution.
Personally, I've begun to lift out of seasonal depression as spring begins to (finally) rear its head. I've made a point not to mope around my apartment, seeking out friends and good times. I've broken away from my chronic fear of new things, exploring the great city of which I am privileged to reside in, and I've changed some of the ways I think about how I work, how I view other people, and what I can do to improve my surroundings and well-being. The personal shift is something that's really started to become noticeable to me: I just feel better about life, about myself, and about my situation. And that's a good thing. And it's starting to lead to newer and better things as well. (More on that in the future, possibly)
If I can pull a simple summary out of the last few months of my life, it's that I've resumed my own personal quest for meaning. By doing that, regardless of what artistic output I'm actually generating, I feel better about life, the universe, and everything. Granted, I expect this to change and flow as the months pile up, particularly if things continue to lead to dead ends on the artistic side, but this time around, I cannot fault myself for not trying. I will try. I will try damn hard.
To quote Serenity, "no power in the 'Verse can stop me." Meaningful words.
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