What I Learned From Waiting for Permission
illustration by Brad Jones for Outer Voice
2010 was the crisis year in my creative life. I’d lived in Los Angeles for two years, and hadn’t booked a single acting gig in that period.
By the time we moved to LA, I’d already landed roles of varying size in seven feature films and television projects. Oscar winners, straight-to-video horror features and Sundance cult hits. Reese Witherspoon threw bottles at me, Danny Trejo gently nudged me back into my light, I shared a scene with Carrie Fisher and my degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon were down to zero.
We arrived in Los Angeles at the beginning of the 2008 economic crumble, in the very week that the Screen Actors Guild refused to sign a new contract with producers, effectively creating a work stoppage.
In short, I couldn’t get arrested in Hollywood. Despite a great resume and great agents, there was simply no work — particularly not for a newcomer to town. I didn’t fit into standard types, and there was a general disagreement on what my type was. Some casting directors saw me as a Steve Buscemi, some as a Sam Rockwell. It’s safe to say nobody saw me as a Ryan Gosling.
By 2010, I was in the throes of a spectacular crisis, wallowing in self pity and further cultivating an already robust drinking problem.
That year, my very dear friend and collaborator, the singer-songwriter Matthew Ryan came through town on the West Coast leg of a tour. After a long night of Jameson, we found ourselves on my rooftop patio, looking out over the lights of the Valley and fancying ourselves some cross of Leonard Cohen and Philip Marlowe.
I began a rant against the Hollywood powers that be, how difficult it was to find work, how misunderstood my genius was, how many actors were vying for the same gigs, etc. The number of times I’d made it to so far before hearing, “so-and-so really likes you, but…” Seemed like everybody liked me, just not enough to hire me.
Matthew sat through my rant, slightly embarrassed I’m sure. When I’d worn myself out, he lit a cigarette, gave me a slow stare and said, “The problem is, you’re waiting for somebody else to give you permission to be creative.”
I’ve experienced very few truly revelatory moments in my life. The effect of this one was as immediate as an electric shock.
Since the first acting job that paid the bills came along, I’d bundled all of my creative energy into a single-minded thrust to acting “success.” The creative energy that, for over a decade at that point had been dispersed across music and writing in addition to acting, was suddenly crystallized into one goal.
The problem with crystals is that they’re rigid.
Throwing all my creative energy into one goal certainly focused me, and I credit it with artistic growth and both commercial and artistic success… for a time. By setting aside my other creativity, I ignored a vibrant and vital part of myself, and I handed over my creative expression to casting directors, producers, writers and directors to tell me when and how I might express myself. In other words, I gave someone else my power.
I don’t mean to say that this is what acting is, nor do I say that most other actors do the same thing. Acting is a craft that requires intense commitment and perseverance. This was simply my experience.
Matthew’s observation cracked my possibilities wide open. Almost immediately, I changed tack and everything began to flow. I snapped the crystal and found a thousand facets inside.
Over the next six years, I wrote two screenplays and two novels. My short stories and poems were published in journals. I returned to journalism, reviewing films for Paste. I scored short films, wrote and produced a short film, joined a theatre company that did the kind of work I love, and traveled back to Nashville to play F. Scott Fitzgerald in a play with Actors Bridge Ensemble. I also quit drinking.
Although I continued to train and to audition for films and television with more close calls and little heartbreaks, I never worked in film or television in my eight years in Los Angeles. If I’d chosen to keep all other creativity on hold in that time, none of my other work would exist.
The screenplays haven’t been produced, and the novels aren’t published. None of that work led to “success” in terms of commercial gain or notoriety. But they nourished my creativity. The fact that some stories and poems were published isn’t the important part — it’s the fact that I sat down and did it. It made me a better writer, better artist and, I’d argue, a better person. It encouraged slowness, thoughtfulness, care and persistence.
Today, my acting, writing and music work are all better because of one another. And I’m happier.
When we give someone else power over when and how we create, we sign away our joy.
At this tumultuous moment in society and art, it’s clear that we all must stop asking for permission. We must act. We must create. We have to do it in spite of, over, around and through obstacles. Old models, old institutions, old mindsets no longer serve us.
As I wrote in You’re Weird, gatekeepers largely exist to protect institutions that know they’re crumbling. As I say in Dismantle Everything, there’s a good reason they’re crumbling and there’s a pressing case for why we must build our own and that they must be first and foremost open, inclusive and empathetic.
For our practice as artists, we have to stop asking for permission to be ourselves and to create what we must. The only way for my process to be fulfilling, for my work to evolve and for my work to tell the truth is for me to do it on my own terms. A poem doesn’t care if I’m a Buscemi or a Rockwell. It has its own truth to tell, and I can’t be the channel for that truth if I’m throwing roadblocks up in my own process.
Don’t be afraid to work without permission. Don’t be afraid to do multiple things. The idea of giving up everything to focus single-mindedly on one craft is stifling. Don’t be afraid to fail, to fall short and to embarrass yourself a little — that’s how we get better.
Also, we’ll never know how good we could be if we never start.
