I’m on another adventure— a small one in some people’s eyes, but an adventure nonetheless. I traveled about three hours to another city for background work on a TV show today, had a costume fitting, and I’m staying here overnight and then filming all day tomorrow. It’s been years since I’ve driven a car more than a few miles, so that in itself was a big thing. Strangely, only a few months after traipsing through zillions of countries on my own, the confidence is already wearing off. There was more nervousness than I expected, although I’m feeling much better at the moment.
The real reason I’m doing this gig, so far out of my way, is because there is a SLIGHT chance that I MAY be able to get a SAG voucher, bringing me 33% of my way to becoming SAG eligible. And hey, it should be a fun learning experience. I’ve never worked background on a union production before, and I’m excited to watch and learn. Plus, it’s cool because the show takes place in the 50’s, so we get to have awesome costumes, and our hair and makeup done there.
Which brings me to…the hardest thing about today: I got my hair cut. A LOT. Like, half of it off—it’s just touching my shoulders now. It’s been forever since it’s been this short, and I’m so glad that it was kind of forced on me by the production I’m working on. As it turns out, I was holding onto my hair as a sort of, I don’t know, identity thing, I guess? I was using it to define who I am instead of just being who I am. It’s also great because my long hair was MISERABLE in the heat of summer, and was always back in a bun anyway.
I’m supposed to be working on my book right now, but I’m procrastinating. I’m frustrated with myself and my storytelling and my writing, and comparing it to my last book, and to other people, and I just want it to be done. Obviously I know that won’t happen until I actually make myself FINISH it. It’s a weird feeling: I can almost HEAR the little judgmental voice in my head, looking at how far I have to go still. It’s so much harder than writing the first one, because now there’s actually something to compare it to. So instead, I’m writing this. Not ideal, probably, but something is better than nothing. I never have to think what to say here. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad, because it’s just my thoughts and experiences, and those can’t be wrong. Why can’t I feel the same way about my fiction?
It’s never going to be perfect, this life thing. It’s never going to be figured out. It may get a little easier as I continue to learn things about myself and as I’m actually learning to trust myself, but things will always be scary. What’s important is facing that scariness, and facing it in a healthy way. Finding ways to learn from it, and teaching yourself that it really isn’t so scary after all.
There is a fly in my hotel room, and I can’t decide if I’m too lazy to do anything about it.