Big serve

Growing up, surviving rejection, and learning to say no

Before I studied journalism, I attended an acting conservatory in New York City. It’s not something I talk about often – mostly because I’m embarrassed about that chapter in my life. And ashamed of how expensive it was, how much time I wasted, how many loans we’re still paying off for a career I never pursued. In the end, it seemed easier to simply scrub it out – leaving only a faint stain on the tapestry of my New York life.

That said, I’ve been picking back through those memories lately because, though they were some of the darkest, they were also some of my most formative years. Working night shifts at Urban Outfitters to pay the rent, living off of cigarettes and bowls of plain spaghetti, and spending hours of my day being “broken down” by middle aged extras and commercial actors. People who seemed to take a lot of joy in pressing a camera against your nose and making you cry or (worse) retelling the story of how they landed the Folgers commercial that aired in the late eighties.

But it was auditioning I hated the most. It ignited something I’d never realised was there, something that’s never left me – a deep-rooted and all-consuming fear of rejection. There was nothing more terrifying, more dark and disturbing, than a casting agent’s blank stare or bored cough. Nothing more ominous than the sound of your name being called, and walking toward that door, past a line of people who all look exactly like you. You are nothing, you realise quickly. You think you’re unique? Go to a casting call. A hallway lined with girls with the same haircut, the same nose piercing, the same style – down to the vintage dress and floral tattoo.

But looking back, this was the real start of my life as a starving artist. The start of hoping beyond hope that one day my passion would become my livelihood. And there’s one thing that carried over from acting to writing, one piece of advice that all my instructors and professors handed out on a daily basis: take any work you can get.

It’s not bad advice, especially starting out. Build up that resumé and don’t let your pride get in the way. So I followed it – have always followed it. I took the first job I was offered out of University writing polls and personality tests for digital media platforms. It wasn’t a dream job, far from it, but I was writing (sort of) and I was grateful for the steady salary. Suddenly I could afford groceries, not just pasta, but sauces, snacks, and fancy cheese every once in a while. I could get lunch out every day, pick up an iced coffee on my way to the office. Walk into a bookshop and fill a tote. It’s funny how quickly you adapt. Once I’d had a taste of this special kind of stability – there was no going back.

So I hopped from job to job, choosing practicality over passion every time. Whatever was safest, most sensible. I had dreams of going it on my own, writing the things I wanted to write about, or finding something I could balance alongside my creative pursuits – like a bookshop or a florist – a sweet little day job that wouldn’t completely drain me. But then another copywriting job would pop up and I’d apply and if I got it, well, how could I say no? An artist never turns down work – I’ve had the philosophy tattooed on my brain.

But a little over a year ago, I took the leap. I left my cosy copywriting job for a freelance life. A life of freedom, I naively told myself. And I met, yet again, with my old foe – rejection.

A freelance writer lives and breathes rejection. Pitches go unanswered, submissions politely declined. Like a one-sided game of tennis. Or really, more like whacking a ball against a brick wall and having it come back and smack you in the face, again and again and again. But you have to keep throwing it. Even though you know that chances are, it’ll come sailing back and hit you – wham – right between the eyes, you just have to keep swinging away and, if you’re lucky, grow numb to the pain.

But fuck if it doesn’t sting. Sadly, I’ve never been a “This is who I am and if they don’t like it they can (insert expletive here)” girl. I’m more of a “hey sorry for interrupting, hope you don’t mind and feel free to make changes,” kind of sad sack. Needless to say, the more rejection I met with, the smaller I became, the less hard I pushed.

So when I met with an opportunity to return to my old copywriting job recently, I almost jumped. The safety, the reliability, it drew me in with soft, cushiony arms. But then I thought about what it would really mean. The rigidity, the mundanity, the daily commute, the forced social interplay. There was a lot I’d liked about the role… but then there were the reasons I’d left in the first place. And those hadn’t changed.

So I called a friend.

“Do you need this job?” She asked. I thought about it for a minute. In some ways, yes. I need to be financially independent again. I need to contribute to our household. I need to feel the knots loosen. But did I need a job right this very minute? Did I need this job? Maybe not.

“In a few months, will you be miserable in this job?” She asked. You don’t turn down work, echoed the voice in my head. Grow up. You’re lucky even to be offered this opportunity. It could be the only one you ever get.

But the answer is, yes, I’d be miserable. In a few months time, on my morning commute, or sat in the canteen, or in the middle of a client call, it would hit me – just how miserable I really was. Just how wrong it all felt. And I would have to take myself off somewhere private and cry – just like I’d always done.

This friend, bless her, was adamant. “You’re not a starving artist anymore”, she said. “You’ll find other work. And if you don’t, you’ll create work for yourself. You need to learn when to say no. If you don’t, you’re just going to end up back in exactly the same place, again and again.”

I was breathless. A door had been opened. I could say no? I could say no. I could let this go by, and hold out for something better. Why hadn’t I felt deserving of this before? Why had I been so intent on punishing myself?

So I turned it down. And sent another pitch to an editor. Swing, whack, the match begins again. But this time, I feel – not, I wouldn’t say, ready – but game.

Thank you for reading! In case you were wondering, the image for this essay is one of my own hastily drawn oil pastel sketches – an early attempt at incorporating my art into this space.