An Aging Actor’s Last Shot at a Lifelong Dream
Before I Let Go
Years ago, a friend texted me a short list of unethical acts a supposed “bestie” would commit should the fate of a friend become precarious. It captured the quiet torture aspiring screenwriters bestow upon unsuspecting victims. The list read as follows:
5. Lie for you.
4. Steal for you.
3. Cheat for you.
2. Kill for you.
1. Read your screenplay.
Though reading a friend’s formatted words doesn’t break any of the Ten Commandments, there are droves of scarred readers convinced God should consider an amendment. Even reading great screenplays like Shawshank Redemption and Chinatown leaves much to be desired to those not versed in coupled words like “Fade in,” or “Cut to.” The truth is, most movie lovers have no clue what it takes to write a script. And why should they? Most people don’t need to know how the sausage is made, unless of course, it’s what they do. Screenplays are no different.
But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last five years, it’s writing a screenplay is only slightly less difficult than making it into a film. The summit almost always feels unattainable, shrouded in ominous clouds that tempt, taunt, but mostly deter. Even on days when the terrain feels sound, the weather changes without warning, forcing you to retreat or cling to the meager footing you’ve managed to gain. Cold calling producers to work on a film by a no-name actor turned novice screenwriter feels like screaming into the void. Even old classmates become trigger shy about making an introduction to someone who could help. In some perverse way, trying to make a movie is a revelation of who your real friends are.
Still, there are victories along the way, like when you find a pack of underdogs crazy enough to think the words you’ve cobbled together are worth telling. Their faith offers solace there are others who still believe the right story can change the world, or at least ease our loneliness in it. The ups, downs, but mostly in-betweens are shared with a rag-tag crew feeling their way in the dark as much as you. The lines between team and family are soon blurred. My vulnerability invites theirs in the way trying to do something impossible does. Our job titles goes beyond a resume or credit on IMDb. We’re no longer just actors, writers, or producers. We are whatever we need to be on any given day — a shrink, a shoulder — a friend. It’s a small price to pay to not have to march alone.
Still, there are times when my doubts gets the best of me. I wonder what business a 41-year-old failed actor has trying to make a feature film when most of my friends have swapped their dreams for 401k’s and party fodder revolves around daycare and aging parents. (A friend recently texted me a picture of a vacuum cleaner he was genuinely excited about.) I don’t envy their lives, but their choices are enough to make me question some of mine.
In truth, my story was birthed out of desperation. In the spring of 2016, my aunt, who is more like a second mother, was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer. I decided to return home after pursuing an acting career for nearly a decade. Like most who decide to tell stories for a living, I’d been spinning my wheels for years. Even before my aunt’s ailment, I was exhausted from investing so much for so little in return. What most people don’t understand about the “starving artist” trope is it’s not placating the concerns of worried parents, or stomaching another rejection that’s most difficult but having to buoy a spirit that is steadily being submerged. Actors must be especially resolute to survive in an industry where more stars have to align and the supply far exceeds the demand.
My transition back to civilian life was challenging. I struggled to find work, a routine, and a place to live. At times, I quite literally didn’t recognize the place I’d grown up in. Neighborhoods once reliable hubs for trouble were now teeming with bike lanes, artisan coffee shops, and sleek modern high rises. I felt like I’d landed on the moon. Still, the greatest hurdle was my loss of identity. Without a stage, a camera, or story to tell I didn’t know who I was. I needed a way to ease my fear of my aunt’s fading health and cope with the realization the first half of my life hadn’t gone as planned. I didn’t know what to do but extend my blinded hand into the darkness in hopes of finding another. Instead, I found a pen.
I wrote every day for months until I had fragments of a story that mirrored my own, which both frightened and excited me. Then, on a whim, I reached out to a friend to see if she had any interest in turning my words into pictures. Still reeling from the death of a father she never reconciled with, the themes of the film struck too deep a chord for her to refuse. She was willing to open doors to rooms she’d sworn she never return but made clear the script needed work. A lot of work.
I read dozens of books on screenwriting, signed up for courses, watched countless interviews, and perused more scripts than I care to remember. Ultimately, I tried to do one thing a day to make the screenplay less bad. Over time, I could see further in the dark — specs up ahead that resembled light. My confidence grew as I began to feel the story evolve into something bigger than myself.
Before long, we’d enticed two Emmy-Award winning producers, a set designer who worked with George Lucas, an executive producer with a background in film distribution, and actors from The Sopranos and Black Panther to board our scrappy boat. Forty plus rewrites later, the script was also advancing in several competitive screenwriting contests. We were on our way.
Then in the spring of 2020, the world was turned on its head. A mysterious virus swept through the world leaving death and dismay in its wake. Face masks and Zoom became the norm as COVID worsened a less overt pandemic: loneliness. Two months later, there was still no cure for the virus or four-hundred-year injustice. The death of George Floyd jolted the U.S. and then the world, finally stripping the mask of ambivalence those with less melanin had hid behind for so long. Out of intolerance came rage. Out of tragedy came the need for a country to look deep within. COVID, like racism, is a virus that affects us all.
Then, in the span of a few months, I lost two mentors; larger-than-life women that influenced my craft on stage but more importantly off. They taught an impulsive and emotional twenty-five-year-old man, the stage was not a vessel for stardom but to find out all you could be. I learned one can’t truthfully embody a character unless they have some of their own. Our ultimate role was to recognize the humanity in others, cling fiercely to our curiosity, and go to war with cynicism and passivity. Becoming a great actor was beside the point. Their loss left a void I suspect will never be filled.
Sifting through the debris of a shattered world, I started to question the value of making a film. Holding a pen, while others clung to placards felt pointless, selfish at best. In addition, we’d failed to secure a single grant or raise a dime after nearly five years. I thought back on all the slammed doors, the dismissal by two agencies, the aloof comments from casting directors, but mostly the potential unrealized. The writing wasn’t legible, but no doubt on the wall. Why, after it was so clear there was nothing left to salvage was I still holding on?
To answer that sobering question, I had to go back. I needed to remember the boy who believed stories offered a glimpse into a world he longed to find his place in. The best ones made him laugh, cry, and invariably broke his heart before piecing it back together. They celebrated his sense of wonder, eased his loneliness, and strengthened his resolve. Come to think of it, stories were preparing that boy for life.
By the fifth grade, I knew I’d rather be on a movie set than swing a Louisville Slugger. I wanted to illuminate the humanity in others the same way those characters had done for me. I moved to New York City where in the span of two weeks I fell in love twice — first with a girl then with a calling. I’d arrive at the theater at 5:30 am before tiptoeing past a sleeping guard to avoid an argument of which there were many. “Why do you need to be here so early?!” he’d demand. “I have work to do,” I’d say.
But as the years dragged on, the novelty of living in New York and bouncing from one audition to the next began to fade. Casting rooms suddenly felt more cramped, the air more desperate. The parts were thin and the characters rarely nuanced. Still, the biggest problem was the one no one cared to talk about. The gatekeepers still clung to the belief there was a monopoly on the human condition. Talent and ability were only relevant if embodied by someone with the right shaped eyes and heritage. This wasn’t a wall I could simply bulldoze through. It was a problem that affected the whole, not just the parts. It felt time to do something else.
When I returned home, I took my finger off the pulse of the industry and avoided discussing acting like politics. I needed to bury the earnestness of that young man who wrote letters to actors he admired and sent headshots to every theater company in Manhattan. I also took an oath to never step foot in a movie house, or theater again. I lasted a week. I failed because I was trying to maim a part of myself, which even if I’d succeeded, would have surely grown back. For better or worse, this is who I was: a storyteller.
Coincidentally, my return home coincided with a rise in Asian American narratives. It was both gratifying and excruciating to stand on the sidelines as the stories I’d longed to tell graced the big screen. Still, in the thick of my conflicting feelings I recognized something far greater than me was unfolding. Even in the dark of a hushed theater, I saw the glint in the eyes of people who finally felt seen.
In the end, writing a semi-autobiographical story was my way of creating the characters I desperately longed to see. It was ultimately what my entire career as an actor was about and is the only reason I haven’t walked away, no matter how hard I’ve tried. This conviction, however flawed, took hold and refused to let go. It was the root of all my joy and pain but mostly of a life less ordinary. I acted and wrote because it was my way of convincing myself I wasn’t invisible. And perhaps, in some small way, I thought it might do the same for others. I have one last story to tell. If I can do that, I can finally let go.
