THE NARRATIVE ARC
Did I lose My Fearlessness?
The courage I used to have seems to have gone missing
I smoked Marlboros or Parliaments; drank Manhattans, stout and burgundy wine. I took risks of all kinds with my friends — including auditioning for parts we thought were right for us. When they didn’t happen, we dealt with rejection and heartbreak, pulled ourselves up and started over. Romantic relationships were pretty crazy, too— but they taught me so much, they were worth it.
When all this happened, I was twenty.
Looking back on those days now, where did my courage and confidence go?
It seems to have vanished, and I need it now, more than ever. There are days life gets to you, and you know you’ll rebound. Today, there is no rebound — just a lot of fear where courage used to be.
I lived in Boston four years as an Emerson College student and then stayed one extra year in an administrative job for what may have been a community college. (I could never figure out what it really was.) What would academics do without newly minted graduates who neaten up their bosses’ lives?
I lived as I imagined people should live, if those people were twenty. Once, I set out with my laundry and ran into two castmates from a play who invited me to a friend’s wedding. Scooting home, I dumped the laundry and changed into a dress that was bought at a thrift store. After eleven glasses of champagne at the wedding, I came home sailing on a pink cloud, making my roommate laugh.
It was a time of fearlessness and confidence. The belief that while I was an unholy mess and the world was an even worse mess, I was going to triumph, one way or another. I couldn’t have told you what that way would be, except it would involve either acting or writing.
I broke up with a boyfriend I’d been seeing since my senior year in high school, after discovering he was cheating on me. I then took up with my friend Dana’s ex-husband Rick— with Dana’s full blessing. Rick was a writer working on a novel who impressed me because he was taking it seriously. I have no idea how he paid his bills and never asked. He lived with his mom in San Francisco.
Except for a few quick conversations, I stayed away from Rick while he was visiting his son in Boston. When he left for New York, he dropped a note in my mailbox to let me know where he was going. He said he hoped I’d call and want to see him again. I decided I missed him terribly, and called my sister to ask what to do.
“Life is short and precarious,” she told me. “Don’t miss out.”
I called the number Rick left me and told him I wanted to see him. He said he wanted to be sure I knew what that meant. I laughed, told him I was an adult and knew exactly what it meant. When I arrived at the apartment where he was staying in Brooklyn Heights, we went to see Charles Mingus, who sent us to at least thirty different planets while we listened to his playing.
The weekend soared above anything I’d experienced so far, and I felt like the bravest, most daredevil high-wire beauty in the world. Rick reflected all those feelings back to me. Later that summer, I visited Rick in San Francisco and met his mom. She was friendly and treated us both like adults. Rick said he loved me and I told him the same.
Though we never discussed it, the attention I received in this relationship made me believe our relationship was monogamous. It was certainly one of the most “adult” relationships I’d ever had. Yet, somehow or other, distance eroded whatever there was between us and a few months later, I heard the death knell at a dinner with Rick, his good friend Scott and Scott’s girlfriend Desiree.
“Is this the Boston one or the Oregon one?” Desiree asked, looking at me. I think she was mad at Scott and couldn’t stand the sight of a happy couple. Rick didn’t reply, but I got the hint.
It felt like someone had stuck a pin in a balloon that was keeping me afloat — I could almost see myself tethered to this deflating Victorian balloon in a silent movie. But while Rick tried to minimize it, I didn’t feel the same any more about our time together. I left for Boston the next day, and let the relationship go.
During my last year of college, I wasted a lot of the year without finding acting roles. In my sophomore year, I’d been cast as Nadya in Enemies by Maxim Gorky. The role became one of my favorites. Nadya was fearless like I was; she rebelled against authority and turned against her family for how they treated workers on their estate.
The role felt like the best part of me, at a time when I wasn’t even sure what that was. When it was over, I auditioned multiple times for other roles, but never reached the same level while in school. Much of my senior year was spent at the Plough and Stars in Cambridge.
The Plough and Stars is, first, a Seán O’Casey play. It was also the go-to bar for everyone in the neighborhood. It became a point of pride for me on St. Patrick’s Day, when I could cut to the head of the long line in front of the bar and knock. At that point, the bartenders pulled me inside and when a guy behind me called out, “Hey, she cut in front of me,” he was told, “She’s a regular!”
That was that.
After graduating, I was cast in a production at the Playwrights’ Platform theater, and loved every minute of it. A year later, I joined a touring company production of Abelard and Heloise and was lucky enough to play the title role.
During one of our scenes, in a town I can’t remember, the actor playing Abelard’s sleeve caught fire. He beat it down and out while talking to me, and the show continued. We knew it was serious and were relieved no one was hurt — but also felt good that we didn’t panic and got through the show.
When the production ended, it felt like the time to move to New York. I arrived at my parents’ home in New Jersey with a plan. They weren’t in love with it, but at least, didn’t stand in my way. Eventually, I found a sublet with three roommates that turned out to be the childhood home of Noah Baumbach. I auditioned and was cast in a few roles, but discovered more success in writing.
I tell you all this because, so many years later, the fearless woman I wanted to become is gone.
While I am grateful to have experienced successes here and there, I am struggling much more than I expected.
What does that mean? I haven’t smoked or drank for years, but I cringe at the thought of doctors, hoping to avoid them as much as possible. I’m afraid of driving, illness, losing friends or my dearest love, falling and breaking something; of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, of losing money or my home; and the parade of bills marching through my life like an overactive ant colony.
I’m afraid of endless technology issues that dog my days and defy whatever I do to try and fix them. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing to family members who have their own ways of judging me.
What scares me most of all is that I spent too much time trying to make a living and didn’t spend enough time focusing solely on my own work. Because of that, I’m afraid I won’t accomplish what I set out to do. There’s an anonymous quote online that says, “The most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why.” I know why, but am not sure I can get there.
I’m still working on things, and projects are still appearing. All that’s missing is courage and confidence — that is to say, everything. I suppose this has happened before, many times, in fact, but this time it feels wholly and achingly new. And I’m not sure what to do about it.
Today, I am remembering the twenty-year-old who navigated heartbreak, weddings, jobs, plays, friends she met and cherished, and curiosity that tugged her forward, even on the worst of days.
If we only reach a fraction of who we are and time is running shorter, how can we bear that? Maybe it’s natural to take oversized risks when you’re younger and become more cautious later on. But too much caution is bad for you — I’m convinced of it.
Yet, the path I’ve chosen as a writer/playwright is fraught with rejections, and can tear you to shreds if you let it. It’s a profession that demands great strength and confidence — though strength comes from within, from doing what we want to do and writing what we want to write. Pursuits that give us joy, personally and as artists, have nothing to do with external approval.
I know this. Can I live it? The younger me would say I can. She’d insist my fearlessness isn’t lost. Maybe I just misplaced it?
There’s only one way to find out. Keep believing in myself — and writing.
