I've returned to Los Angeles just in time to take part in a terrifying ritual known as "The Table Read." I've been writing a series of essays, monologues and conversations for the last few months, and today is the day I get to hear how it has all come together… or not. I've been told with absolute force that I should think positively and that even critical reactions can be useful.
Here's the thing—I'm a delicate flower. As we've already established, I hear a positive for about 20 seconds and a negative for the rest of my life. So imagine me trying to achieve a Zen-like state in the face of this much vulnerability. Can't imagine it? Yeah, neither can I. It has nothing to do with logic—a piece can always be better. I think it has much more to do with the life pressure that is now on me to succeed. I quit my job, in part, to write. If I walk away from a table reading of my work with "this was an abomination," that choice might seem less wise.
Even with great critical/commercial success, I know that I would still face criticism. This is why I plan to completely remove myself from the internet should I actually be employed. No one needs to read the pointed barbs of Twitter after a 16-hour day. My rational mind has accepted these things as truth. My somewhat fragile psyche—well, it's still working on it.
Here we go.