Toutes directions: on y va!

Well hello again,

What a month it’s been. Things are good in my world, the way forward is clear. I’ve been putting order on my life lately, closing doors and ending chapters. I thought these endings would feel like deaths, but actually I feel liberated. My time is mine again. These revelations all came to a crux when I encountered a particular sign in Metx, France a couple weeks ago. ‘TOUTES DIRECTIONS’, it shouted at me, vaguely gesturing towards a road that led in every conceivable direction. But it was fine, this sign didn’t infuriate or baffle me on that day, because I’d worked out where I was going by this point. I wrote a little bit about this on my instagram page, cryptically though, so let me explain…

At this point, I have to admit that I’ve been depressed for quite a long time about my career. I’ve been locked in - what I can only describe as - a toxic relationship with the acting industry. People warn you about rejection when you get into acting, how you will be told no over and over and over again, so you best believe in yourself through the ups and downs. Nobody warned me there was a worse feeling than somebody telling you they don’t want you in their world, that there was a polite, prevalent and normalised way the gatekeepers of the acting world could show you even less respect than rejection. I’m talking about silence, the empty, lonely, endless silence that rolls on with no merciful, discernible end. A rejection would release me from hope but for whatever reason, casting directors won’t give actors that reprieve anymore. I’m left alone in fantasyland, picturing myself in the daydream, or on blue days when I can’t summon the resilience to hope, I retire to my deep dark cave of despair. That’s what you get nowadays as an actor who doesn’t get cast, no matter the passion, care and professionalism you employ in interpreting their scripts: nothing. Every thing is done on phones and computers and probably AI, and there is not one human face to face interaction in this elongated chain between the actor and the job. You get a tape, you get excited, maybe this time you’ll get to do what you love, what you’ve professed so many times you’re here - on this planet - to do, maybe someone will choose you and you will get the chance to work hard and be part of something meaningful. You learn lines and accents and immerse yourself in someone else’s imaginary world for 2 days. You make your little tape, you send it off, prompt, professional, positive. You whisper sweet, but piteous affirmations to the sky, to work its magic, and you feel fine about things for a day. And then the silence starts and in its place you try to fill in the blanks. Maybe I should have made bolder choices. Did I hint at the period costume or did I look ridiculous? Too much smiling or not enough? Is that emerging forehead wrinkle the problem and would I really regret botox? Is everyone better off when I don’t show up?

I go quietly mad. I can’t think of anything else. I joke to my boyfriend when I’m sad that ‘I want to go to the place all my self tapes go!’ He is not of this mad acting world so I have to explain it to him anew each time: ‘The abyss, Den, the abyss! I want to be nowhere.’ More time passes and I go about my life, try to get on with things with this hollow feeling gnawing away inside me, and there’s silence, and silence, and nothing, and more silence until I think enough time has passed that it’s safe to tentatively ask my agent: ‘any feedback on that tape I did, that one we thought I was so right for, and positive noises were coming from the casting team, apparently… so you said?’ They can’t remember which one so I clarify, and after initial confusion they deliver the familiar line: ‘Oh. No. Sorry. That went to another girl’. Once, when I was 14, I beat (approximately, allegedly) 15,000 girls to an incredible, life-changing role I so desperately wanted, but it feels like ever since then 500,000 girls have beaten me to the roles I wanted, so maybe this is karma, maybe it’s only fair. The problem with this - and it is a problem that is entirely my own, so irrelevant to everyone else that it deserves no sympathy, but that is a problem that dominates my attention nonetheless - is that it leaves me alone to wonder what to do with my life, if that was where my luck ended.

I reached my limit with this cycle of self-harm a few weeks ago while working on another tape. I had been forceful with my agents, admittedly quite unbearable, crying about how my soul is expiring on the convention circuit, being lauded as an actor but never actually doing any acting work. I insisted they fight harder to get me auditions. They pushed, and some more tapes did come in. And, like a lovesick schoolgirl hung up on a dreamy but elusive college boy, I abandoned everything of value around me to prime myself for these opportunities. Working around the clock to make myself seem English, Aristocratic, Elvish or 18. But I got stuck on this one tape. It seemed so simple, a part I could easily play. Irish, mid-twenties, bright and quick-witted. Good writing and strong characterisation; I had no complaints. I approached the challenge with alacrity. I learned my lines, studied the accent, the script, the beats and off I went to make my tape. It went well, I came home, I watched it and prepared to send it off. But I couldn’t… I stopped, I rewatched the tape 20, 30, 40 times and then forced Den to watch it with me. He sniggered and grimaced at all the appropriate moments. I grilled him on his thoughts, so much, that he actually held up his hands in defense: ‘It’s really good darling, I like it!’ but I pressed him further until he gave me what I want: ‘Sure, of course, you probably have more in you. You could go further with it’. I retreated to my office and continued to work on it, speaking the words, shouting the words and then answering myself 50 different ways. I turned the words inside out, back to front, loud and slow and then in barely a whisper. The scene lost all sense to me, and I surmised that perhaps that meant I was finally present with it. I got stuck in a loop, I couldn’t stop. 3 hours later, chanting the words, tears rolling down my face, I looked up to meet Den’s eyes watching me nervously from the doorframe, and I lost it. I sobbed like I haven’t sobbed in years, letting Den rock us both back and forth, feeling his anxious head pats, knowing how disproportionate this reaction was but being unable to control it. We stayed like that for maybe 20 minutes, him trying to comfort me with gentle interjections of ‘it’s just a silly audition, love’ and me trying to calm down enough to explain that it didn’t feel like that anymore, it didn’t feel fun or easy or like just one part of my life anymore; it felt all-consuming and fatal.

So, I have quit! I have quit the business of acting. I feel slightly that declaring I’ve quit acting is sort of like those people on instagram who make a point of telling celebrities with millions of followers that they’re hitting that unfollow button; nobody noticed, nobody cares! And yet I need to write it down for my own sake: I am out! I can’t tell you how joyous an admission that is, how gleeful and euphoric I feel to write those words down. It’s bizarre and ridiculous to me because for so long I denied and ignored and postponed making this decision because I was afraid of how awful it would feel to fail. I was afraid that admitting defeat would rob me of the will to live and strive for anything. At conventions, people with tear-filled eyes and trembling hands have told me how my success as a teenager gave them the courage to believe in themselves and pursue their dreams, while I retreat to green rooms, arms laden with gifts, my gut twisted with anxiety, my eyes searching for someone who’ll give me the courage to fail.

And rather than steal the last vestiges of my will to live, this failure has given me my life back. I am free to wake up every day and pursue whatever I want. And what I most want is to write my own books. I’ve been trying to write this novel for the past 6 months but I’m ashamed to admit I’ve gotten very little done because of the one variable, unpredictable and utterly destructive factor I sacrifice all my writing goals to: acting. I’ve been setting myself weekly goals with this novel and then failing to meet each one because my on-again, off-again dysfunctional and extremely selfish ex lover rears his gorgeous head, derailing everything and condemning me to an epic emotional breakdown and the resultant hangover (is it just me who gets these crying hangovers the day after a crying spell? Every time, I feel like a demon has left my system…). When I describe it in such terms, I wonder why I didn’t draw a line under this sooner, but I have always been obstinate, wilful and unwisely drawn in by self-destructive forces. What’s good about all the time spent and youth wasted on this failed dream, is that I know deep in my cells, that I tried my very best, that I pushed myself as far as I could go with it and I can walk away with no regrets.

When I encountered that absurd sign on the roadside in Metz, I laughed and crossed the road to take a picture hanging off it, because I no longer feel like a little leaf being blown around in the winds of life. I don’t feel like the variable influence of the acting world can scoop me up, chuck me about, take me on a wild adventure and then drop me at a moment’s notice. And I think I have been too available for that, saying that I wanted to write a book but all the while hoping an acting job would scoop me up and take me somewhere interesting. Do the hard work of building a meaningful life for me. But it is harder to live without a purpose in life and it’s so far past time for me to do the hard work myself. So this sign infused me with hope and optimism because, having finally made this decision, I know where I’m going now. I know what my path is and however many paths available, however tempting and exciting the diversions, I can’t be knocked off course again.

The unexpected gift of making this decision has been a deeper layer of self-acceptance that has settled. Having accepted and owned my failure as an actor, I can suddenly see and admire all the beautiful things around me. I am proud of the part I got at 14, and the world it welcomed me into, rather than ashamed for only being known for one thing. It’s a world I’m still enamoured with and I can’t believe I ever let the idea of being ‘a serious actor’ overshadow all the gifts this world has given me. I have a beautiful home and sweet animal companions and I have a man who backs me at every juncture. I have more books than I can read, and kind, creative, supportive fans who encourage me when I give up. And I have so much time to write my book now.

This self acceptance is already opening my life up in so many ways. I’m not so ashamed to meet people’s eyes now. I summoned the courage to say hello to the friendly old Irish man on my street who smiles at everyone. I start conversations, curious about where they’ll go, not fighting to find a way to obscure my failures. ‘I don’t act anymore’, I cheerfully told several brilliant actors at the Basingstoke ComicCon, ‘it was making me depressed and I feel happier when I write’. I had a great, rich conversation with the actor/writer Richard Armitage about his novel Geneva, and his writing process, and another with the creator of Stargate (I didn’t catch his name though, it was such a brief exchange) who casually alluded to the fact that he’d been an actor in his 20s but abandoned it in favour of writing. ‘Do you ever regret quitting acting?’ I pressed him, desperate for the answer and probably more familiar than is appropriate with someone you’ve only met 5 minutes ago. ‘Not at all’ he shrugged, ‘because I found I was much better at writing and people paid me much more for it’. His solid sense of purpose amazed me. How magnetic people are when they commit to doing exactly what they’re meant for. The environment rearranges to support them.

In the fullness of time, I think I will act again. There’s so much I love about it. (I’m still working as a voiceover actor). I have quit the industrialisation of acting, is a more accurate way to put it. The pursuit. The business. The emphasis on acting for acting’s sake, of getting work to prove that you still matter. I never really believed in the structure and limitations of committing to a ‘career’. I’d rather pursue a calling, because that feels more authentic. I think back to when I started in this ‘business’. I was a dreamy, ambitious, creative young person who saw herself playing a part in telling a beloved story. Overnight, people declared me an ‘actor’ and that my ‘career’ had been launched. I have a career? I wondered, reading the articles, puzzled by the abrupt change to my status in society. I have a career? But quickly I caught on, perceiving the considerable social currency it gave me, the security it could lend, the sense of being a valuable member of society and soon I was telling people: I have a career, and I was taking it incredibly seriously. I think that’s where I went wrong. I’ve been trying to build and maintain a career by taking the steps every other person with an acting career does, forgetting that I didn’t get into this business in a conventional fashion. I admire (and envy) everyone who can play and succeed within this system, but after years of trying, I just can’t do it.

So that’s where I am now. Writing my book. I have cleared my schedule for June and am going to apply myself to this purpose. I’m also going to apply to university to study creative writing, because I do need more support and structure from teachers and the writing community, but I think that will be next year when I’m ready to submit an application. I’m really curious to see how I feel after a whole month of writing every day, which is a commitment I’ve not made since I wrote my first book. All I want for June is structure, discipline and consistency, so my imagination can run riot within these clear confines. I feel happy again, and relieved.

Aside from that big, massive life upheaval, everything is fine. I’ve started Jungian therapy which has been transforming my life. It’s crazy how much sense emerges from the nonsense of dreams. I have soooo much to say about the wisdom and insight of dreams but this blog is already very long. I also read a riveting story called Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala. I came across it because I was studying Fiona Shaw’s interviews to try and pick up a posh Cork accent for one of my (final!) self-tapes and her wife’s harrowing story captivated me. The book was so raw, disturbing and harsh. I can’t help but think that trauma and grief like she experienced makes you an alien to everyone else because nobody wants to imagine themselves being dealt and then surviving such loss. That type of resilience galls me and I’ve found I keep returning to this photo online of Sonali and Fiona beaming widely, Fiona standing behind her wife and hugging her so tight. This image radiates so much joy, love and strength, I cry when I look at it. I love them. I’m so glad people like Sonali find the courage to write their unfathomable stories down, and that they have people like Fiona to hold them.

That’s all for now. Loads of love to you xxxxxxx