“Doubts. I have such doubts.”

In my world, when I’m alone, I’m infamous for seconding guessing everything. It’s my nature I suppose. And this nature constantly has odds with my confidence. On any given day I’m walking in the door with a solid head and a strong stride, but then two seconds later – BAM! – I hit a wall.

This wall of mine? I just slammed right into it. It hurt, too. If it was actually there I’m sure it would’ve made my nose bleed.

There are very few things in my life I can actually say that I possess kilos of talent. I’m also aware of how much I lack in talent in those very same areas. “A day late and a dollar short,” my mother would say. Singing, for example. I’m quite good. But. I have bad pitch, which poses a problem. Volleyball. I was good at one time and now, well, if there was some substance beyond rusty that would be where my current athletic abilities are found. And then of course writing.

I came to writing when I discovered that my passion for theatre was not in performance as much as I wanted it to be. Like many people, I’m sure, at least that’s what I hope, when I thought of theatre I equated acting to be the obvious choice. It was like peanut butter and jelly, the two just automatically go together. For me, acting and theatre was not my PB&J. And thankfully so I might add. But writing, I discovered, I had a knack for.

I feel that my plays are good, that they have all the required elements that makes a great play, but then I’m sure every writer thinks that about themselves. An artist of any genre needs that sort of confidence to make it in the world, but then there are doubts. And those doubts play havoc with the not-so-established confidence I muster from the inner depths of my being.

“Am I really good?”

“Do I have talent?”

“Is there such thing as talent?”

“Can I make it as a writer?”

“Am I fooling myself? Like REALLY fooling myself?”

“Maybe I try too hard.”

“Am I even relevant?”

“Maybe my mother is right I should just get my MBA and move on from this pipe dream.”

The last one I actually attempted. One year of MBA classes almost made me want to run myself into a jagged, crusty knife. And the attempt was to see, if at all, there was any sphota in business. Like maybe my journey in writing was the path towards my real calling of business administration, to be a business man in Gucci pin stripes and have the financial means to achieve my materialistic dreams: loft, vacation home in Ireland, a 19-something, something Camaro. Fortunately – or unfortunately if you’re my mother – I couldn’t care less about an MBA and all the classes that came with it. Interesting stuff. Completely! I just didn’t care enough. The same was felt when I tried my hand at education and history. The entire time I was derailed by the ideas of new plays and everything theatre. Even late night writing sessions of writing those ideas became priorities over my class assignments. No matter how hard I tried I always came back to the same place I started.

In the movie Amadeus, Salieri – a man who had an undying passion for music – confessed: “All I wanted was to sing to God. He gave me that longing... and then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire? Like a lust in my body! And then deny me the talent?” Could this be the same for me? The desire, the drive, the want to write for the theatre is there, implanted in my soul like ancient hieroglyphic etchings never disappearing. It’s there! Would God be so cruel to plant the seeds but give no water to make it grow?! Could this calling to be a writer, a calling I am so certain has been ringing, be in fact a misnomer? My faith and my inner most heart tells me that is not the case, but how can I be for certain? And if signs have been there for me to WAKE UP then I must’ve missed them; I’ve never been really good at hints. But, no matter how hard I retrospectively scan my life I find nothing pulling me away from the one thing I know I’ve been called to do.

So. I move forward. Really, it’s all I can do. And I carry that doubt with me. And Persistence and Determination are worthy allies against a Doubting regime. And sometimes I think that maybe the doubting is a sign within itself to keep me from stopping and giving up and settling on something else not worthy of a great life. Sometimes doubt can be a motivator. The American humorist Erma Bombeck wrote: "When I stand before God at the end of my life I would hope that I would not a single bit of talent left and could say 'I used everything you gave me.'" I believe among all my beliefs that I have something given to me to share and to tell the world. And like Ms. Bombeck, I want to use up every kilo of talent I have. And I will. This doubt, all the doubts, will not be the end of me as a writer.

When the life of a play’s protagonist ends so too does the play. The same goes for me.

I have a long life ahead of me.

Money, Money, Money.

Everything costs money. Unfortunately. Even art. I believe that there are artists out in the world full of valid voices and a message that could change the course of time, but the lack of financial support causes that inevitable ceiling to be put in place.

Jeremy started a group on Facebook to assist with Project Peru fundraising. The project is $500 short of goal and we welcome in-kind monetary gifts of any amount. Fundraising, for me, has always been quite the challenge. And when I think of fundraising I only picture large, elaborate events: benefit dinners, auctions, dances full of black ties and glittering gowns. That could be the problem, the picture in my head and the reality of fundraising might actually be majorly left of center. But, the idea that one needs to “spend money to make money,” has never settled into the circular logic of my mind. I ask: if you have to spend money to make it, then where do you get the money to spend?

It has always been my theory that the phrase “show business” is exact and intentional and not just a cliché. To have “the show” you must have “the business” otherwise it would be “show-show.” And there have been many nights I wish upon the stars for “show-show” to be the reality merely because “the business” intimidates me. And I think I may not be the only artist out there who feels that way. Regrettably, however, the reality is that the business of the show must be present. Business makes the world run, it’s an international language that connects us to them and them to us and makes trees grow and feeds the bull dogs, and I have to always remind my self of this fact. So, I muster-up some confidence, keep the head high, move forward and ask for funding. The worst anybody could ever say is “no” – funny how that little two letter word can make a person feel. But, it must be done. I believe in this project and every project I commit myself too, I believe in theatre, but more importantly I believe in myself too much to not have my message ignored purely because of money.

Playwright Theresa Rebeck, in an interview with Eric Winick from Playwrights Horizons, said “that is why I continue to write for the theatre...it feels like as a story teller you’re actually put on the planet for this task.” If I could’ve said those exact words myself I would’ve. I have always seen my choice to write for the theatre as a calling. And a calling can not be ignored or burned on the back burner of my mind. I have to do what it takes to make the world listen no matter how outside the realm of “me” it may be. There is no such thing as a comfort-zone as an artist. And the moment I become comfortable I must shake things up. Even if it means I ask my neighbor’s brother’s girlfriend for $200 to help produce a play I completed.

It’s in the uneasiness of life that art is born. And in this time, in this moment of our century, the business of money is one necessary step to help bring forth the child.

In The News...Sort Of.

There was an article written about me in University of Saint Mary's alumni magazine Aspire. It's the Spring 2009 issue. Below is the link. The article can be found on page 8.

USM's Spirit of Justice Inspires Theatre Alum to Give Voice to the Voiceless
By John Shultz