The Dangers of Oversharing

Don't worry, this isn't going to be like Emily Gould's 12-page oversharing analysis of her history of oversharing in the New York Times (though if you're reading this, NY Times... I am available). But I do want to talk a little bit today about oversharing. Which is sort of like writing about writing or singing about singing (i.e. usually pointless). But here I go.

So. What is oversharing? Being too honest, being too vulnerable. Opening yourself up for criticism. Spilling the details of your life to any old stranger you meet. Telling your mom too much about your sex life. Risking that people won't like you, will feel uncomfortable, will avert their eyes.

Like high school gym class – when being uncoordinated and self-conscious was not charming or funny. When you walked into the gym for the 80th straight day of kickball and tried to play it cool and pretend that kickball was beneath you, that you didn’t care, but you could hear people muttering and sighing. Well... I guess that's not really an example of oversharing so much as it is an awkward memory. But whatever, it feels the same.

Like wearing the wrong thing to a formal event. Or wearing something too fancy – equally embarrassing.

Like the guy at a party who gets out his guitar and won’t stop playing and doesn’t seem to realize that he sucks. He just sings song after banal song, clueless that he has brought the party to a grinding halt. Like if I opened my journal and started reading it out loud and didn’t stop even when the giggling faded and the room got dead silent.

That is the danger of writing a blog. These are the images that flash through my mind as I decide to make my blog public. Not that someone I know will find it and be offended – but that they will be quietly embarrassed for me and look at me differently when I see them in person. Since it’s in this weird amoral aphysical space/nonspace called the internet, the BLOGOSPHERE – there is no way to read in someone’s eyes if I’ve said too much. So I just have to plow through and hope my instincts about what to say and what not to say are on target.

I guess you could say I’m a professional oversharer. I’m a prude in my private life but onstage I stripped naked to Proud to be an American. I dread the idea of crying in public but in my solo show I crafted a huge, awkward, embarrassing meltdown in front of the audience. So clearly there’s something about oversharing that appeals to me.

But with performing, there is a clear line between onstage and offstage – even when you’re making weird performances where you are playing “yourself” – and the lines are different with blogging. And I don’t know where they are yet.

So I guess what I’m saying is: hello, world. This is my blog. Please don’t hate me because I suck at kickball.

Oh yeah: and happy new year!

Holiday Stress, relieved

Update time. OPERATION HOLIDAY FAMILY FREAKDOWN IN TEXAS went swimmingly, as in it went the (b) route. Worth it.

Even more worth it because -- joyful surprise! -- Jonathan and I got two ticket vouchers in exchange for volunteering to get bumped to a later flight to Austin. We arrived within a couple hours of our original arrival time, and we got to fly first class (which these days isn't as dazzling as one might imagine but still, not bad). So we can now plan a special trip wherever we want, whenever we want, however we want. Amazing how that perked up our spirits and took off some of the we spent $1200, and for what?! pressure.

The other tangible outcome of all the stress was that we had a frank discussion with my family about holiday traditions and the need for change. As in: I told them we will be celebrating Christmas in Oregon next year, and they are welcome to visit me if they want to. It was a good, hard conversation, and I think they more or less understood. As our friend Debbie so wisely pointed out, you can’t create new traditions for yourself until you stop trying to hold onto the old ones. We're adults now, and it's time for us to buy our own tree and make our own goll-dang traditions.

Other highlights:

+ Hearing Jonathan's grandparents tell stories -- I am always reminded, when I'm around them, of where Jonathan gets his incredible gift for spinning tales and holding court with grace and charm. This is a trait that I admire in Texans in general (and I am not just saying this to suck up to Jonathan's family).

+ But as long as I'm sucking up, Jonathan's family bought me a wonderful gift: cowboy boots! I'm like a little kid, I want to wear them all the time.

+ Of course I ate the most incredible, tender, smoky BBQ I have ever had the pleasure of consuming. Complete with pickled okra and hush puppies. Mmmmmmmm.

+ My parents gave us a food dehydrator which maybe doesn't sound that exciting but trust me, it is. We can dry our own mushrooms and tomatoes. Which is going to help us with our grand goal of living entirely off our garden produce year-round.

+ Though we only saw my family for one day in Austin, it was a delightful jam packed day, featuring chilaquiles for breakfast, pho for dinner, dominoes, happy hour, a hot tub, an engagement announcement and new year resolutions. Plus my mom half asleep and giggling on the couch.

Now we're back in Portland preparing for our grand escape to NYC which alternately thrills and terrifies me. But then again pretty much everything in life alternately thrills and terrifies me.

Holiday Stress, and other cliches

So. I am experiencing holiday anxiety. Also known as a BEING A LIVING BREATHING ORGANISM. You can tell I'm anxious because I'm expressing most of my emotions in ALL CAPS and use the word FREAKING a lot. Though if that's my criteria than I guess I'm anxious all the time.

Point being, I have not bought a plane ticket yet and my family is cheerfully expecting me to be in Dallas in five days.

Dallas is where my sister, my aunt and her family live. My parents are driving down from Michigan to convene upon it.

And Jonathan’s family, down in Corpus Christi, are expecting us on Christmas Eve.

Every time we visit Texas I forget how FREAKING HUGE it is, so once again I blithely thought we could fly into Dallas, swing down to Corpus, hit Austin on the way, drive back up to Dallas – everyone would be happy. Awesome, road trip! But I forgot that Corpus Christi is a six hour drive from Dallas.

So the reality is: we will fly into Dallas, spend two days there, on Christmas Eve drive six hours down to Corpus, spend two days there, then drive back up to Dallas, stopping in Austin to see some old friends, then fly out early in the morning so we can be back in Portland for a rehearsal. (oh yeah, we’re flying to New York on January 4th). Are we even going to have time to stop at a BBQ joint? Side note, I love writing BBQ. I wish more long words had 3-letter abbreviations. Like, instead of full-blown panic attack I could just say I’m in the middle of a FBPA. Wait, that’s just an acronym. How about HYPVN8 intead of hyperventilate? It’s not the same. BBQ is in a class of its own.

Anyway, the real reality is, (see opening sentence – I’m on a continuous loop) I haven’t bought the tickets yet, and they’re insanely expensive, and I am engaging in what is the most extreme case of denial yet in a long and storied career of practicing denial.

I know, I’m sounding whiny. And this is the most boring post ever. But right now tickets to Dallas are around $700 and it’s way cheaper to fly into Austin. But if we fly into Austin… oh dear lord. That adds a three hour trip that looks something like this:

Austin --> 3 HOURS --> Dallas --> 6 HOURS --> Corpus Christi --> 6 HOURS@#%&$%!!! --> Dallas --> 3 HOURS --> Austin (in time for a 6am flight).

THAT IS MADNESS. But if I tell my parents this is too expensive and complicated for me to handle this year, they’ll alternately shout and sob hysterically about how the family has fallen apart and life will never be the same and what’s $1400 compared to SAVING THE FAMILY?

When will the day come where people come to me for the holidays? I know, I know. When I have a baby. Which sounds less complicated right now than trying to figure out all these travel details.

UPDATE: ok, I just talked to my parents and we came up with an alternate plan where they meet me in Austin on the 26th. And they did not shout or sob hysterically. So I was just being a big old stressball for no reason.

UPDATE #2: Did I mention that I have not bought (or lovingly handmade) any presents yet?

UPDATE #3: I bought the tickets. The thing is, I don't know if in 7 days I will be (a) rolling on the floor laughing with my sister saying THANK GOD I BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS or (b) on the road exhausted and too broke to buy a taco saying WHY IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS DID YOU LET ME BUY THOSE TICKETS. To my poor long suffering partner who is asleep on the couch right now. He was so happy an hour ago when he thought I'd decided, screw it, not worth it, this time we're staying home for the holidays.

Anyway, I'll let you know in a week whether it goes direction a or b. Unless it swerves madly in an abab bcbc cdcd ee pattern in which case I will express my feelings in the form of a sonnet.

Criticism & Negative Reviews

This topic is always on my mind, since (a) I have a hard time being criticized, and (b) I am a performer, and part of being grown up and professional and classy means being able to take it in the chin. [correction: ON the chin. Not sure what taking it IN the chin entails but it doesn't sound very classy to me.]

In August when I went to New York with my one-woman show I knew it was going to be a struggle. We would be lucky to get any reviews at all, so I had to be ready for negative reviews, and I had to be ready for them to get personal.

HOW DID YOU DEAL WITH IT, FAITH?

Well, let me tell you. I handled it the one foolproof way I know: by not reading them. Which was good, because I got five reviews in all – two were mostly positive, two were mostly negative, and one was vaguely snarky. I know this because I did have to read them eventually.

There’s a weird thrill that comes from reading a bad review about your work. Maybe it’s the thrill of someone finally punching you in the face after long-simmering tension. There’s catharsis in that: finally, someone told me the truth, that I suck. The danger is that you will take it too much to heart. “Sophomoric and angsty” = IT’S TRUE, I AM SOPHOMORIC AND ANGSTY, what is wrong with me, why am I so immature, why do I suck so much, I should just give this up and be a schoolteacher except I probably suck at that too, etc. etc. etc.

I think it is possible to reach a point where you take the punch but it doesn’t stop you. Where you say, ok, maybe my work is sophomoric and angsty. WHAT ELSE YOU GOT? Or better yet, you take that criticism and use it as promotion. COME SEE FAITH HELMA “DOG PADDLING IN CABARET.” (That is advanced level badassery though, and a topic we will tackle another day: how to reclaim negative criticism and use it for self-promotion).

And you know what, praise is actually trickier to deal with, because if someone says “she is doing the best work of her life,” what do you do? Sit back and say, yes, I am doing the best work of my life? In that case the only thing I’ve figured out (though no one has said I’m doing the best work of my life – so I haven’t had to work too hard) is to allow the praise its brief moment to happy dance with my ego, then tell it to pack up its things and play with someone else.

Maybe that’s something you could do with the negative too: let it flourish and drip inky doubt into your psyche, then push it out the door and say, it’s time to go home now.

So, that’s my method for dealing with reviews. But what about the rest of life, when your criticism doesn’t come in the form of published articles that you can easily avoid or hold at arm's length? AHHHH. Yes. That is much more difficult.

WHAT DO I DO ABOUT BAD REVIEWS OF MY LIFE?

I don't have a clue. But Sarah over at Make Great Stuff talks about taking in feedback as a visual artist, which is fascinating to me – I spend a lot of time thinking about how hard it is to be a performer and how easy it must be to be a visual artist – but of course we’re all putting our hearts and beliefs and risks out there for everyone to see, and that is haaaaaard hard hard.

And over at Fluent Self, Havi talks about the concept of sovereignty a lot – not letting someone else’s shoe-throwing (aka, criticism that comes out of nowhere) throw you off balance, learning how to step back and say, that is your deal, this is my deal, I am going to listen to what you’re saying but not fall into a weeping puddle of self doubt and recrimination.

Well – I have to say I’m not quite that sovereign yet – I am still liable to get tearful if someone calls me out directly. Or if I manage to not show it on the outside, I’m feeling it in the form of a raging hole inside. But it is a helpful image and word to keep in mind. Sovereignty.

And I always love Penelope Trunk. She lays the events of her life out with spare, unrelenting honesty, and if someone tries to tear her down, she ups the ante. An example: family members of the man she was dating were doing searches to find her most salacious posts, and forwarding them to other family members. She mentions this, and then says,

“Wait. You are wondering, right? What they’re finding? Here. Here’s a list of some links.”

And links to the three most salacious things she’s written. Which means she is in control of her story, and not letting other people get hold of it. She’s not hiding – she’s putting it out there even more. I admire this. I think it’s smart, and fucking hard to do.

IT ALL COMES BACK TO BARACK

This may be a weird comparison, but I am reminded of Barack Obama. When a scandal comes out, instead of denying and denying and running and hiding, he uses that opportunity to lay his cards down and speak directly and honestly. When the Reverend Wright scandal first broke, he responded with a beautiful, difficult speech about race. This week, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize (a perfect example of positive praise sometimes being worse than negative praise*), he directly addressed the awkwardness of accepting a peace prize just as he’s going deeper into war:

But perhaps the most profound issue surrounding my receipt of this prize is the fact that I am the Commander-in-Chief of the military of a nation in the midst of two wars. One of these wars is winding down. The other is a conflict that America did not seek; one in which we are joined by 42 other countries -- including Norway -- in an effort to defend ourselves and all nations from further attacks.

Still, we are at war, and I'm responsible for the deployment of thousands of young Americans to battle in a distant land. Some will kill, and some will be killed. And so I come here with an acute sense of the costs of armed conflict -- filled with difficult questions about the relationship between war and peace, and our effort to replace one with the other.

(Read the entire speech here).

Most politicians these days (maybe always) avoid being honest about difficult topics. But you know what they risk by not talking about the difficult things? They risk the story getting away from them, and I think Barack Obama is incredibly smart to take hold of the story at the beginning, to put his cards on the table and articulate the issue in his own words. To do otherwise is to let secrets take hold, to let the gossip whispered behind backs gain power. You need to be in control of your story, warts and all.

So, that is what I am mulling over today and trying to learn. How to talk about my life and my art and all the mistakes and confusions and slings and arrows, without shame or fear.

* wait, I just realized I may have coined a term: negative praise. Is that when someone praises you for what you're not, like, "oh she'll be fine, she's no dummy" or "he's never been late a day in his life"?

Random Manifesto #1

So this is ironic. I had this whole ongoing list of items for my manifesto, and I was waiting until the perfect time to post it. Then through a series of complicated actions still unbeknownst (doesn't that seem like a fake word?) to me, I just now accidentally erased the entire thing.

So I think that’s a sign. It means – life is too short to effing POLISH your manifesto. Manifestos are not masterpieces. You dash them off and move on to ACTION.

Now that I am forced to start with a clean slate – what do I care about, right now? What will I stand for and what will I not stand for? What items from that list can I even remember? Here goes:

1. No more crazy bosses. No bosses at all. I don’t know how I’m going to make this work but I don’t want another crazy boss.

2. No making excuses for artistic geniuses. Like Roman Polanski. You know what, I’m not even convinced he’s a genius. The Piano was okay. Wait, his movie was The Pianist, right? Not The Piano. Which was in my opinion a terrible film. I would support packing Jane Campion off to prison even if she didn’t rape a child, just to stop her from making more overwrought movies about pianos and people’s fingers getting chopped off and Holly Hunter and Harvey Keitel getting it on. Wasn’t her last movie about Meg Ryan and boxing and weird sex? That sounds like a good premise but I bet it wasn’t.

But we were talking about Roman Polanski. The Pianist was ok but not as great as everyone said it was. And the reason this is on the manifesto is: I don’t care how effing great his films are, doesn’t excuse his actions. His wife was horribly murdered and that is sad, but also not a good excuse for nice-raping* a twelve year old. Sorry.

* nice rape: a term I just made up, to describe a scenario where it’s definitely rape but the guy was super sweet and drove you home afterwards, and maybe had a bitchin’ hot tub and bought your mom a car. In case my sarcasm isn’t reading: this is not a serious term and please do not start using it. God. Now I sound like I’m minimizing rape. Sorry about that.

3. NOT sorry! Goddamn it. No more apologies. You don’t APOLOGIZE in your manifesto.

4. I guess this means I can’t make excuses for Michael Jackson, either. True, they did not prove he was a pedophile, but it doesn’t look good. Especially now that the one kid’s father killed himself. Hm. Well, I’m not making excuses for him personally, but the fact that he may have been a pedophile doesn’t mean I don’t love his music.

5. Beets are a magical food and I don’t know why they have such a blah reputation in the U.S. Boil them in water with onions, carrots, celery and then squeeze in lemon juice and you have a magical, delicious elixir that wards off colds and sore throats.

6. You know what, I’m a cryer. I believe in letting it all out sometimes. Sometimes everything is not okay and the only way to feel better is sit down and feel bad about it and have a good old fashioned cry. All together now: it’s all right to cry. Crying takes the sad out of you. It’s all right to cry – you just might feel better!



So, to sum up my life philosophy as manifested here, right now I stand for crying, Michael Jackson and beets, and I do not stand for Roman Polanski, Jane Campion, apologizing and crazy bosses. Huh.

I'm different, different, different

I posted this over on the Hand2Mouth blog, perhaps you'd like to read it?

On not being different from everyone else

I drew a picture of my business plan and it looks like a kindergarten classroom

Hm. I guess the title kind of says it all there, doesn’t it.

So I read about this exercise, where you draw a picture of what your business plan looks like. Here is my problem. My business isn’t really a business. It’s a weird combination of artist haven / social service agency. It looks like a kindergarten classroom, if kindergarteners had an amp/mic/delay pedal station. And a waterless shower where they get to sing their favorite songs and shout imagined rants / visionary speeches.

Problem: it didn’t really answer my basic question, which is: WHAT AM I SELLING?

I am selling dreams and rainbows and story time and a place to talk about your fears and practice becoming the badass you already are but don’t know it.

Yeah. Um… is that something I can sell? What would make me qualified to provide that? Can I just say I want to do that, and it’s cool? Will anyone buy it? Am I wacky enough to pull something like that off?

Two years ago I went to this women-in-theatre conference in Denmark that blew my mind. Not in the ways I expected. There were a lot of women doing solo work there and I came away thinking, “the last thing I want to do is make a solo show” which apparently subconsciously translated into “I will immediately start making a solo show” because that’s what I did. But that is a topic for another day (I’m going to keep mentioning my solo show but always say it’s a topic for another day and then never get around to discussing it straight on. FYI.)

Anyway, conference: the thing that blew my mind was having conversations with women of all ages, backgrounds and nationalities – all of whom were making crazy, groundbreaking theater nd all of whom were having the same struggles, triumphs and failures I was having. I bonded with women from Sweden, India, Egypt, England, Peru, Spain – women in their fifties, thirties, twenties – with or without babies, with or without careers, with or without money. Amazing.

One of the workshops I did was with this Australian artist, Margaret Cameron. At first she was so woo woo that I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. But halfway through she won me over. She had these great mantras – she would have us walk around and hug each other and say, “what if where I am right now is exactly where I need to be?” Then she’d say, “I know it isn’t… but what if it was?”

She kept asking over and over and it finally sunk in: what if I stopped doubting myself for ten minutes? What if I believed that I was on the right track? What if everything in my life has prepared me for this exact instant?

Maybe this sounds trite – but the thing is, as a woman (maybe for men too, I don’t know) I struggle with these doubts and fears EVERY DAY. It seems radical to think of going even one day without them.

And I would love to get to where I can embrace my own wacky, woo woo, stumbling dreams. That is what I want: to believe in myself enough to go there, to lead people in wacky, crazy workshops where they spend half the time thinking it’s total bullshit and then have a breakthrough. To have a space where I can work on my stuff and other people can too. Where they can show up and I’ll make them a cup of tea and we’ll sit on a big old rug in the middle of the room and I’ll pull out a book and read from it and we’ll put some music on and dance out the stress. I mean, if a space like that existed and I could pay $10 and spend an hour there, I’d go. But maybe I’m alone in that. And maybe that’s a silly way to approach business.

Well, we'll see. I need someone to take me from the kindergarten classroom drawing on posterboard to the part where it's an actual business. Maybe I can partner with a therapist who already has a practice and would like someone to be out in the lobby sitting on a rug singing songs and making tea and stuff.

ARE YOU A THERAPIST WHO NEEDS A WACKED OUT ATTENDANT? If so, call me.