Days of Whine and Poses

I’m afraid, faithful readers of AYISF, all is not peaches and cream in the City Different. Oh, nothing wrong with the water, as far as I can tell, and the politics seem no worse than most places. No, I am talking about a crisis of confidence with your humble narrator. Not surprising, really; it’s afflicted me everywhere else I’ve lived, and the beautiful mountain backdrop and the dry desert air are no panacea, alas. Though they go a long way in making each day easier to take.

But certain facets of our personality are set in stone; perhaps decorated with some striking petroglyphs to pretty them up, but nothing expansive enough to hide the obvious. Like: I can get really thin-skinned, or insecure, or stressed out, about my perceived inadequacies. And God knows there are plenty of them.

The pic in question; yes, many of you have seen it before...

So, the recent reminders of those shortcomings. I joined a local photography group as a way to meet people and perhaps enhance my meager skills. As I’ve demonstrated over and over here and at my other blogs, I take photos, but not always well (and certainly not as well as I would like). Last week or so, I posted my first pic to the group’s webpage. I wasn’t expecting praise, exactly, because as I’ve quickly learned, most of the other members are pros or amateurs with keener eyes and better technical talents than I possess. But I guess I felt my shot wasn’t awful, so what the hell. And as it’s been so apparent over the years, I tend to have a clogged filter when it comes to keeping most facets of my life under wraps (which of course explains this blog and the defunct one.)

With all that, it still came as a bit of the blow when one member asked if I meant to have that hot spot. And didn’t I consult my histogram? Or perhaps I was trying to get another focal point? My internal response to all that: Uh, hot spot? Histo—WTF? And, yeah, sure, that’s it, another focal point. I said none of that in response, of course, just thanked him for pointing out that hot spot.

As I wrestled with the sense of diminished self-satisfaction this stirred, I took myself to task: You said you wanted to learn, right? To get better? Well?

Well, indeed. It might not have stung so much if this exchange hadn’t come in the midst of rehearsals for the play of mine that’s in the local theater festival (mentioned previously). There’s nothing like hearing your own words over and over to make you think, “Hey, this could suck” (and that is absolutely no reflection on the actors and director, who have been stellar). Then juxtapose your play with the others, which are funnier or subtler or have better costumes, and you (I) start to think: “Tell me why I write plays again?”

The actors at work.

No, I do know why. The writing process scratches some creative itch, the collaboration—when I get the chance to take part—makes me feel connected to other artists, and the production, when it goes well, is better than any illicit drug. But as some guy once said, there’s the rub: if it goes well. If the people laugh when they are supposed to and walk away from the performance feeling touched or stimulated in some way. But at this point in the rehearsals, I don’t know if that will happen, because of my words. My play could be the dog of the show.

And let’s be honest—I (I won’t speak for other writers) do put my words out there to touch people and get some kind of response, and maybe praise, in return. Just as with that un-histogramed pic of Callie. Writing for public consumption is about, at least in part, ego gratification. Maybe to compensate for something not gained in childhood, eh Dr. Freud? Or in other relationships since.

Which explains why a more recent part of this production left me feeling pretty damn inadequate again. I was one of several playwrights from the festival chosen to sit down with a reporter from the well-respected weekly arts section of the local daily. Quite the honor, especially since it was my first interview ever about my playwriting. So the finished product came out yesterday and—it was bad. Well, my part—all two or three sentences of it—was. The writer started with a factual error (after I had given him the right info) and then quoted just one line of all I said. And misquoted me on the first part, so that I sounded like an idiot. I mean, it just didn’t make sense. And if I really did say that, then he certainly did me no favors by including the inarticulate phrase I uttered while leaving the scintillating (haha) parts on the cutting-room floor.

Man, what an overly sensitive SOB I can be. Guilty as charged. I can step back, as time passes, and see how insignificant all this is. But in those stinging moments when this shit unfolds…ouch. The picture; well, that’s easier to dismiss. I have never defined myself as a photographer. But the play; that is a bitch. Especially when I already feel like this opportunity has not led to the increased social interaction I was hoping for away from the theater. I feel like everyone else involved already knows each other (largely true) and I’m the new kid in school who sits on the fringes and waits so eagerly to be invited to have lunch with someone. Doesn’t even have to be the cool kids. Just someone.

Again—pathetic, I know.

In what might be irony, a member of the photo group helped remind me why I keep playwriting, even with its frustrations (and that’s when something of mine actually gets picked for production; I haven’t even gone into the 95 percent of the time my work is rejected, which, oddly, I’m probably more at peace with at this point). The member sent out an announcement about an online video that explore the nature of art/creativity in the digital age. Yes, a lot of what people create for the Internet is not good, but it gives people an opportunity to express themselves. People can share their ideas and feelings so easily. Now, as we know from this blog, that is not always good.

Thinking about this “democratization” of self expression made me realize this: Theater will never be digitized. Thank god. Theater by definition involves real people performing live in front of other real people. I like that. Even if I don’t always like—or see too vividly the flaws in–the plays of mine that get staged. But I will keep doing it, and most likely repeat the angst of the last few weeks. But I might hold off on posting more photos. Except here, of course. No one here will ask me about my histogram, right? That seems like sort of a personal question anyway, doesn’t it? And god forbid I reveal anything personal…