I’ve signed up to do The Artist’s Way with Ali Vingiano.
I’m doing it.
…
Why am I doing it?
…
What the fuck am I doing?
Those people seem so nice. Too nice for me? Ali is, among other things, a yoga teacher. Her Substack is all colours and rainbows. When she expresses angst, it’s lovely, it’s tender.
They’re gonna be all polite and gentle in how we encourage each other, and I’m definitely more… gruff?
I am genuinely invested in others’ successes, but with lots of swearing, which tends to put people off, for some fucking reason. I once had an acting teacher who, although she was a bit of cunt, was probably onto something when she said “swear words are passion words.”
I’m very passionate.
Still. Maybe I shouldn’t do The Artist’s Way with Ali Vingiano because they’ll all hate me.
Welcome to my thought process, which is in no way unique, but it is exhausting. It always starts with why I shouldn’t do things, and often ends with why I shouldn’t do things. It’s fun (it’s not. It’s soul crushing). And you will be surprised to learn that it usually results in me not doing things.
Which is why I’m actually doing The Artist Way with Ali Vingiano.
I’d like a word with the showrunner
I don’t know, Christopher, because I’ve only started watching The Sopranos for the first time a couple of months ago (I know it’s 25 years old, but please, no spoilers. Do the ducks come back? I don’t want to know yet). And I don’t know what my arc is either. I feel like I’m here to support a main character I cannot see, and the people in the writers room were very drunk when they wrote my storyline.
“What if that dumb bitch was a teenager riddled with angst?”
“Good idea, that’s original!”
“But then, in their twenties, and it’s just more angst. It doesn’t get better, they just have a bit more sex. But also grief.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“But then, hear me out, in their thirties, full blown alcoholism? depression? They push everyone away?”
“Fun!”
“Do we do flashbacks to the violent upbringing, being bullied in school? Sexual assault?”
“Yeah!”
“The whole high school dropout thing could be fun.”
“No, what is this, a Ken Loach movie? We want entertainment.”
“You’re right, boss, and who gives a shit about backstory, anyway?”
“So… when they hit their forties, it’s not really a mid-life crisis because their whole life has actually been a never ending crisis?”
“Now THAT’S comedy!”
Getting back to writing my story
I read The Artist’s Way nine years ago. I have a terrible memory but I am certain of that because it’s related to me binge-watching a show and loving it so damn much it provoked a nervous breakdown and a depressive episode, because I am normal like that.
When I started recovering – or rather, moved on to a different stage of craycray – I thought: I need to get back to telling stories.
When I was a child, I was a great storyteller. I wrote poems, songs, I created whole worlds, characters, relationships. Most children do, but that was all I was doing. Crafts? No. Sports? Nah. Friend? lol, no.
In elementary school, I convinced some kids that an invisible, vampire-like monster was haunting me. Soon, it was haunting all of us. We talked about it in class, at recess, in the cafeteria. It was an adventure! Although the monster was my creation, everyone in our little group added to it: what he wanted, what he did at home when no one else but us could see or feel him, how it affected us. We investigated (followed an unsuspecting adult around for a few hours and reported on how they might have been an accomplice). I was the creative lead, but it was really a collaborative effort. And it was the first time in my childhood I felt like I belonged to a group. It would be the only time.
After a few weeks, they all got tired of it and collectively decided I was a liar.
That was the end of my career in entertainment. Everything else died down too. By the time I was a teenager, the well had dried. No angsty teenage poetry, no essay, no fanfiction. Nothing.
Flash forward to when I decide that what I study doesn’t really matter since I just need to finish my undergrad to get my master’s degree, so I might as well major in something useless but fun, like theatre.
I was wrong: it is a useless degree, but it was not fun.
No one wanted to play with me and they didn’t believe an invisible monster was haunting me. Not even for a few days.
But self doubt was haunting me. It was telling me I had, in fact, no story to tell.
I had read The Artist’s Way before starting the programme. What’s funny about it is that I remember almost nothing. I remember doing the morning pages for some time - a few days, probably, maybe a week or two? Which for someone with undiagnosed ADHD is no small feat.
But then: nothing. Did I even finish reading it? No idea.
So I suppose that might be one of the reasons why I’m a little suspicious of it. If it’s so life changing, why didn’t it change my life then?
I also recoil from the woo-woo of it all. Not because I don’t believe but because I do want it to be magic. Which is a problem. In the past, I’ve gone a little too far into New Age crap, because I tend to go a little too far in everything I do. Looking back, I think the only reason I didn’t end up in a cult is because I was too weird for them. But there were a few close calls.
Ashley, look at me
It’s a bit different this time. I’m not doing it because I’m desperate for a cure for creative constipation anymore. In fact, I’ve never been as creative as I am right now. I have stories flowing out of me - still working on my metaphors. What I mean is: I have gone back to telling stories.
After painstakingly outlining my first pilot, I wondered: what if this is it? What if it was my one idea? Just a fluke. It has everything I love: action, monsters, romance and motorcycles, and generally being all up people’s vaginas. Maybe there’s nothing left.
But soon after, I had other ideas. Different ideas.
Like: cars and titties.
I was writing! I was creative!
So, if I create more this year, I can attribute it to the work I’ve done last year and continue to do — not to some miracle. I might be mistaken, but I imagine at least part of The Artist’s Way has to do with just doing, so no one would be wrong here. I’ve just been doing it already. I’m getting better at actually sitting down to write, although there’s still room for progress. But some days, adhd is gonna adhd.
What I have not been doing yet, and that I hope The Artist’s Way, and having a community, will help with, is sharing what I’ve been working on. I’ve been a bit shy. You don’t get rid of the fear of rejection easily, especially when the rejection has been brutal and near constant. When I wrote my first Substack post, I only told one person1 - which is a bit unfair to Harold Perrineau, please go give it some love if you feel so inclined. When I posted the second one, a few people subscribed and I freaked out (thank you for subscribing, I appreciate you). I considered taking everything down. I resisted posting again.
Here I am, pushing through.
Maybe I do have stories to tell. There might even be a few people interested in hearing them, if I’m brave enough to share them. This feels like a trust fall. Don’t let the cussing intimidate you, and please someone catch me.
I’m aiming for two posts a month and I’m almost failing already, for reasons very much related to what I’m talking about in this post, and that I will explore further in my next post.
That I will definitely finish and publish.
Look, I’m even telling you what it’s going to be about so I can’t back down. Accountability, baby.
I will talk about this whole Supporting Character Energy a bit more – starring Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead.
Until then,
Fucking hell!!! This is exceptional. I was gonna private message but fuck it. I saw your post pop up when I was at work. I was laughing out loud! You have stolen my inner dialogue. The self doubt that leads to self doubt so more self doubt. Perfection. I try to pretend I don’t cuss, because yeah, people don’t like it, but passsssion. Where the FUCK else can I put it?! I had to put your post away… and as soon as I got home I settled in to read, start to finish again. This is so everything I want to read. Show me the mud in your wounds. I will help you clean. I will show you all the mud on me. And holy hell, I may have to join the course after all, if for no other reason than pair up again, & show everyone how many artist’s ways there are.
Keep going, Albe. I’ll haunt about with you, any day.
🖤🦇🖤