How “The Sopranos” Changed my Entire Creative Process

Tony Soprano is a reflection of self-inflicted fragmentation and the shattered self.

This article contains heavy spoilers. Heavy in both senses of the word: heavy on the descriptions of plot points and also, heavy emotionally.

Several moments in my life have warranted the passing thought of, “if someone had told me that I would eventually [insert a perfect example of the absurd], I would call them crazy,” but this moment feels particularly absurd as I find my heart shattered for a fictional mob boss.

Tony Soprano, on paper, is everything from which I would steer clear: a serial cheater, a liar, a murderer. He’s terrifying, violent, duplicitous, conniving, selfish, and greedy. A nightmare.

Though these qualities are regularly masked or mitigated by a charming Jersey-Italian accent and playful mannerisms, he navigates his world through the context of the mob lifestyle he opted into, which in its inception and execution requires traditionally unethical practices. Why did he choose this life?

Before we get too philosophically cliché and ask ourselves why any of us choose to do what we do (I promise this article won’t go in that direction), I want to quickly share why Tony is still considerably in the realm of ethics.

The word “ethics” derives from the Greek word “ethos” which means “character” or “disposition.” In short: you are what you do. (Further implications include thinking that what you do is right, otherwise why would you do it?) We all follow our own code of ethics, permit detours from the usual path, and hold certain actions to be concretely taboo. But my ethics don’t look like yours, and they certainly don’t look like Tony’s, is what I thought.

Until that haunting final scene.

I’m lucky that the ending wasn’t spoiled for me, and I could react to it naturally.

My reaction? So glad you asked. I cried and was inconsolable for two hours. I don’t mean a tear or two. I mean that I could not catch my breath.

That was weeks ago, and I think I’ve finally realized what that emotion was (even though I can’t watch any Sopranos content, specifically that with Gandolfini in it, without shedding a tear and feeling deep sadness).

Tony Soprano is a reflection of self-inflicted fragmentation and the shattered self.

By freely choosing the mob lifestyle, he puts himself at constant odds with the expectations of people around him; the most obvious chasm is the split between his identity as a mob boss and a law-abiding citizen, those two identities impossible to reconcile. But of course it gets deeper: he lies to Dr. Melfi to protect his identity, even though they’re both aware of what it means to be in the waste management business; his close friend becomes a rat, requiring Tony to murder him; he learns his own mother put a hit on him. These are only three examples of a lifetime of decisions that would cause severe fragmentation within the self.

And I think lifestyle is the glue that holds this fragmentation together. In the simplest terms, these occurrences are unfavorable but expected. But then, something like the situation with Christopher happens.

Christopher promises Tony he will stay clean, and Tony explicitly warns him that he will meet his demise if this promise is broken. After the murder of his fiancée, Christopher started using again, and Tony gave him one pass. This was the side of Tony that didn’t want to be a mob boss; his heart overpowered his brain, and Christopher got a pass. Except Christopher didn’t stop using.

And what did Tony do when Christopher confesses that he can’t pass a drug test? Tony didn’t just kill him. He brutally suffocated Christopher and watched the life leave his eyes. Was that mob boss Tony or betrayed Uncle Tony?

Let’s put aside that in this moment my heart hurt for Tony. More than for Christopher. What does all this have to do with my creative process?

Fast forward to the final scene. Throughout the last episode, everyone around Tony is dropping like flies, unbeknownst to him.

Tony’s sitting in a diner booth with Carmella. He selects “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey on the jukebox player. An unknown man wearing a trench coat walks in and sits at the bar. My eyes widen, and I say “No way.”

AJ sits next to Carm, and the three are smiling and speaking casually. I’m sick to my stomach. Meadow is somewhere outside unable to park her car. The mysterious man gets up from his seat.

“No way, no way, no way.”

He walks to the bathroom, and the camera cuts back to the Sopranos. I don’t even remember what they’re talking about because I know there’s only a minute left of the episode. And then, it happens.

Meadow opens the door to the diner. Tony looks up at his daughter with a warm smile on his face. The screen goes black.

I was confused. I thought I had accidentally sat on the remote and turned off the tv. Then I saw the final credits appear.

When I realized that what I had just witnessed this whole time was not a story of the mob life or of a mob boss, but of death, I was beside myself. Truly. That permanence. That darkness. The irrelevance of everything that came before that. All gone.

“That’s it?”

That’s it.

How many times did the show inform us that those men only experience two endings: being behind bars or being untimely buried in the dirt. They said that over and over and over. But it wasn’t until the screen went black that I felt it.

That permanent darkness awaits everyone. (Oof, Sasha, this is the direction you wanted to take? Yes! Because there is optimism, here, after experiencing the heaviness and the tears.)

And this is why I can’t imagine myself ever not being a proponent of existentialism.

Knowing that a silent pitch black screen of nothingness awaits all of us equally, there is so much to do, experience, witness, express, feel, enjoy, learn, try, discover, explore, etc. Everyday we wake up, and we experience a screen of somethingness (yeah, I cringed writing that, but you know what I mean).

We can admire the fundamentals around us, everything we need to survive. Then we can take it a step further and indulge in metaphysical pleasures like having an aesthetic or chasing a spark of curiosity.

Tony has become my momento mori.

I think that’s why I cry when I see his face or think too long about the show. Death is terrifying. Existentialism doesn’t give me a remedy for that. Instead, existentialism gives me a greater appreciation for my finitude.

Even though I think by distancing myself from a life of organized crime I’ve marginally increased my chances of not prematurely meeting the permanent black screen, nothing is guaranteed.

So I have to ask myself, how do I want to live? That’s really the biggest philosophical question, right? What’s going to bring meaning to my inherently meaningless life?

I don’t have all the answers (that would be so boring), but I did make revelations and immediate changes to my life, specifically to my creative process.

While writing my second book, I’ve been simultaneously trying to grow my social media following because it seemed that my only options to becoming a full-time author was traditional publishing or growing a following of potential customers. This required hours spent on making reels, drafting content calendars, engaging with other authors and readers across various social media platforms, and honestly… I don’t like it.

It contributes to self-fragmentization.

Not to mention, I work in digital and social media marketing for my regular job, so there were some days where I’d spend 6–7 hours making content for Instagram, pouring hours into videos that hopefully a handful of people would see, a select few would engage with the content in its entirety.

What if the permanent black screen had appeared when I was editing a reel about how I organize my philosophy books in chronological order, just to ride the wave of a trending audio clip? And this isn’t to say that such content and activities can’t feel fulfilling for others, but for me, it’s really not how I want to spend my time, waiting for the algorithm to catapult my content to other lovers of philosophy and fiction.

I’m a writer. I’m a reader. It brings a genuine smile to my face to type those sentences. And I want to continue smiling and typing.

The creative process should not contribute to self-fragmentization. The range of perils of the shattered self is so vast, and I think that’s scarier than the permanent black screen, for with the latter, you aren’t witnessing all the disconnects. My best creations are expressions of pure subjectivity, authentic curiosity, and channeled vulnerability, which are inaccessible from a fragmented part of myself.

That’s why I’m reorienting my entire approach to my second book, my platforms, and all my creative projects. In fact, I promise to —