I
t feels so silly to grieve a career loss in the face of such overwhelming collapse. Every day we witness escalating violence and the casual disregard for human life sold back to us as “patriotism” and “freedom” (words that now mean “white nationalism” and “intentional cruelty to increase shareholder value”). So why am I crying on the toilet reading yet another template rejection email?
I’m a woman, fully grown. I know opportunities are scarce. I know how expensive it is to produce new plays. I’ve even served as a panelist for many of the writing opps we all apply to every year. I keep hoping it will teach me something new like, “Ah, here’s how you write a good artist statement.” But the truth is: they’re all fucking good artist statements. We all have incredible plays that deserve a chance to grow.
I try moving through this silly grief by acknowledging it. Let it hurt. You’re a playwright living through a fascist regime, wouldn’t it be weird if everything was going well right now?! Maybe money or recognition would feel like safety, but no one’s really “safe.”
I also try to follow the advice I’ve given my students: Apply and forget. Let it be a wonderful surprise when it happens, if it happens. You don’t get to control what happens next. If no one gets it, show them (ugh—self-produce). Still waiting? It’s probably time to write the next play. Every play is a miracle. Every play is a miracle.
– Adrienne Dawes
I’ve long dealt with career-related grief by trying to circumvent it completely. My longtime mentor drilled it in me as a teenager that I simply had to try for as many opportunities as I could in order to eventually succeed: “All you need is one yes.” I’ve tried my best to adapt this attitude to the many festivals, grants, and fellowship applications I submit to on the regular. Submit and forget: I can’t be let down if my hope’s never up. It mostly works, though I must admit it still stings when you’re a finalist for a very large or prestigious prize. There’s something about coming close that hurts so much worse than a random e-mail that starts with “unfortunately.” I’ve managed to train myself to let it go, but I also allow myself to feel any feelings that bubble up in the process. I name the emotions as they appear, and I sit with them patiently like estranged relatives overdue for a visit. Those feelings are part of me and feelings are what make us human. When our visit’s through, I wish them well and send them on their way so that I can once again take up the hard and solitary task of writing.
I deal with the closing of productions in a similar fashion, avoiding the grief of the final curtain by ensuring I have another project on the horizon. I’ll go as far as scheduling a reading, hiring a cast, and sending invitations to force my hand at finishing some new and nascent draft. Production closures are so much harder than the grief of rejection. I try not to dwell on the plays that have taken their final bow and instead plot my course toward the next. “Curtains” for a beloved show is inevitable, and that’s what makes theatre beautiful. To create theatre is to create something that is finite. And so knowing the end will come makes the living that much sweeter; I bask in every rehearsal, every beer shared with collaborators, every performance I’m able to witness, and every curtain call. If I’m able to, I might peek into the theatre as the crew strikes and say one last goodbye, but by then I’ve ensured that my brain has the next project teed up—and the draft is due soon.
– David Davila
Rejection and disappointment are constant frenemies in a creative life. Productions close. Promising opportunities evaporate. Funding ends. The email you hoped would change your career begins with “unfortunately.” I realized early on that if I wanted to survive as an artist, I couldn’t let each “no” determine my worth. An artist’s life can die from a thousand nos.
As an AAPI artist with a Chicago Booth MBA, I embrace my entrepreneurial spirit when faced with setbacks. Entrepreneurs, like true artists, have a relentless drive to create, no matter what life deals them. If I can’t get a play produced, maybe I’ll turn it into a screenplay. Or a ten- minute play. Or a monologue. When a story or character compels you, you’ll find a way to be seen and heard. If you can’t go through the front door, check the windows, the side doors, the back door.
One day while watching baseball, I had an epiphany: if a player bats .300, that player goes to the Hall of Fame. Whenever I get a “pass,” I remind myself: the goal is three out of ten.
I remind myself and my students that rejection is data, not defeat. Yes, grieve when you “lose.” You grieve because you care. We can’t control what gets funded or chosen, but we can control how we respond. Write. Rewrite. Submit. Connect. Celebrate others. Every act of persistence reclaims your agency. Grief becomes rich compost that fuels new creative work. Persistence may be the most creative act of all.
– Lucy Wang
