For the person reinventing herself after her thirtieth birthday (or for an earlier generation, after her fiftieth, or for the generation before that, her seventieth), passion is the guiding light.
Despite my constant yammering about men and slutty rebounditude, I’m referring to passion of a different color. This is not the passing fancy, the tryst, the intrigue, or even the marriage. This is the soul of oneself rather than the soul of love. This passion is the force that makes wives decide to become nuns and nuns decide to become mothers, the force that makes men come out of the closet rather than staying on the downlow, the force that makes writers and actors and singers and painters quit their day jobs and say “Fuck money, fuck comfort, fuck normality. I’m going to get off my duff and really do this.”
It’s the force that made me move to Chicago without a day job. It’s the force that made Fred and Tippy sink everything they’ve got into their movie. Since their movie’s going full speed ahead right now, my lack of a day job means I’m deep in the throes of their passion and being swept along in its constant press onward and upward. I love it, mostly. Being part of anyone’s great passion is exactly as exciting and fulfilling as one might expect it to be—you already know this if you’ve ever had a truly exhilarating love affair, the kind that is equal parts chemistry, stress, and base animal heat. You already know this if you’ve ever taken—and passed—a major test like the state bar exam, or charmed the intelligent pants off your PhD review panel, or if you’ve had an audition for a life-changing role or an interview for something equally life-changing that you knew swept them off their feet. It’s a mixture of the excitement that keeps your stomach full of butterflies and elephants, the pride at feeling you’re mastering something you’ve long wanted to master, the smugness at being judged superior to others who may have stood in your shoes, and the gut-opening glimpse into infinite future possibility.
Being part of someone else’s passion, however, has its drawbacks. (Drawback, more correctly, because the rest really is great fun, a great life experience to share.) When one is part of someone else’s passion, one doesn’t have time for one’s own. Being swept along at the manic pace of wish-fulfillment is a full-time occupation—and then some. You can start to feel as if the love affair has turned one-sided and your former love now stalks you day and night, waiting in the bushes outside your front door, never taking "no" for an answer.
I often find myself checking emails about audition confirmations at midnight when I ought to be using the time to write, to look for places to get published, to get manuscripts ready to send out. I end the day huddled at my desk (albeit cozy) updating spreadsheets and schedules and drafting documents for the producers to get their Illinois film tax credit.
Instead, I should be totally focused on being a dirty, dirty girl in order to get over seven years of snoring monogamy, then on writing a witty tell-all about being a dirty girl, then on getting a book deal, and ultimately on making enough money not to have to pursue others’ dreams anymore. (You know this clichéd story all too well already. It’s the classic “dirty girl to book deal” version of the American Dream, and took the place of the term “rags to riches” somewhere between Jacqueline Susann and Candace Bushnell.)
Sadly, the only thing I've brought to bed since coming to Chicago has been my laptop. Don't get me wrong, this thing is the love of my life, truly. It's just that, unlike a man, it doesn't come equipped with a certain piece of hardware with which I'd enjoy getting re-acquainted right now. And I do spend a lot of time sleeping over at a man's house--my boss's. Alone. In the spare room. On an air mattress with my laptop and a few outdated New Yorkers I can't keep awake long enough to read.
Like a tired old whore, I need a break from all this passion. Give me a nice romantic intrigue instead. Better give it to me fast, though. Once the producers get back from NYC my head won't be above water for the next two months. To quote Fred (who uttered these fateful words in a childlike falsetto), "For the next two months we won't get to have any fun at all."
Damn.
Despite my constant yammering about men and slutty rebounditude, I’m referring to passion of a different color. This is not the passing fancy, the tryst, the intrigue, or even the marriage. This is the soul of oneself rather than the soul of love. This passion is the force that makes wives decide to become nuns and nuns decide to become mothers, the force that makes men come out of the closet rather than staying on the downlow, the force that makes writers and actors and singers and painters quit their day jobs and say “Fuck money, fuck comfort, fuck normality. I’m going to get off my duff and really do this.”
It’s the force that made me move to Chicago without a day job. It’s the force that made Fred and Tippy sink everything they’ve got into their movie. Since their movie’s going full speed ahead right now, my lack of a day job means I’m deep in the throes of their passion and being swept along in its constant press onward and upward. I love it, mostly. Being part of anyone’s great passion is exactly as exciting and fulfilling as one might expect it to be—you already know this if you’ve ever had a truly exhilarating love affair, the kind that is equal parts chemistry, stress, and base animal heat. You already know this if you’ve ever taken—and passed—a major test like the state bar exam, or charmed the intelligent pants off your PhD review panel, or if you’ve had an audition for a life-changing role or an interview for something equally life-changing that you knew swept them off their feet. It’s a mixture of the excitement that keeps your stomach full of butterflies and elephants, the pride at feeling you’re mastering something you’ve long wanted to master, the smugness at being judged superior to others who may have stood in your shoes, and the gut-opening glimpse into infinite future possibility.
Being part of someone else’s passion, however, has its drawbacks. (Drawback, more correctly, because the rest really is great fun, a great life experience to share.) When one is part of someone else’s passion, one doesn’t have time for one’s own. Being swept along at the manic pace of wish-fulfillment is a full-time occupation—and then some. You can start to feel as if the love affair has turned one-sided and your former love now stalks you day and night, waiting in the bushes outside your front door, never taking "no" for an answer.
I often find myself checking emails about audition confirmations at midnight when I ought to be using the time to write, to look for places to get published, to get manuscripts ready to send out. I end the day huddled at my desk (albeit cozy) updating spreadsheets and schedules and drafting documents for the producers to get their Illinois film tax credit.
Instead, I should be totally focused on being a dirty, dirty girl in order to get over seven years of snoring monogamy, then on writing a witty tell-all about being a dirty girl, then on getting a book deal, and ultimately on making enough money not to have to pursue others’ dreams anymore. (You know this clichéd story all too well already. It’s the classic “dirty girl to book deal” version of the American Dream, and took the place of the term “rags to riches” somewhere between Jacqueline Susann and Candace Bushnell.)
Sadly, the only thing I've brought to bed since coming to Chicago has been my laptop. Don't get me wrong, this thing is the love of my life, truly. It's just that, unlike a man, it doesn't come equipped with a certain piece of hardware with which I'd enjoy getting re-acquainted right now. And I do spend a lot of time sleeping over at a man's house--my boss's. Alone. In the spare room. On an air mattress with my laptop and a few outdated New Yorkers I can't keep awake long enough to read.Like a tired old whore, I need a break from all this passion. Give me a nice romantic intrigue instead. Better give it to me fast, though. Once the producers get back from NYC my head won't be above water for the next two months. To quote Fred (who uttered these fateful words in a childlike falsetto), "For the next two months we won't get to have any fun at all."
Damn.
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