Skip to content

The Shrinking Half-life of Praise

     

    tutuphoto by 2nd Street Photography

    Thirtyish years ago as a young Jewess—immersed in imaginary play and wearing my older sister’s pink tutu—I was interrupted mid-soliloquy by sibling cackles .

    I would never outlive this episode, forever fossilized in the family cannon of moments-you-never-live-down as

    “Whah am ahhI? (hand flourish) Whah ah my pawents?”

    (Translation: WHERE AM I? WHERE ARE MY PARENTS? THIS IS A VERY STRANGE AND BEAUTIFUL LAND I’VE AWOKEN IN AND I’M AN ENCHANTING AND GIFTED BLOND PRINCESS VIOLINIST NAMED CINDY!” I just never got to the rest what with all the hysterical laughter and snorting).

    As an older child I spent hours alone, singing along to musicals on my parent’s record player. I memorized all of the ingénue parts, and improvised the story in between. It consumed me wholly, and served me well when I went on to play most of those exact parts as a teenager and young adult. I didn’t know I was practicing then—I just loved singing and pretending, even by myself.

    I didn’t have opportunities to act in an a production until high school, for which I now feel grateful (it takes decades to get rid of kid-stage-voice—it’s a whole other layer of puberty, combining Nellie Oleson with a British accent). I sat in the audience a lot though, craving the stage. When the lights went black and I heard the actors in their character shoes walking to their places, it felt like when your middle school crush stopped by your locker one day–as you turned your infected starter earrings–smirked and grunted “hey.” That powerful.

    As a girl, acting wasn’t so much about the audience for me. I found my people and got to express and extend through and past myself—letting my voice blend with a chorus of others, and soar over the audience’s heads. All that energy—all that potential—finally released, and the joy of sharing it with others made performing addictive. I imagine running a marathon gives ultra-athletes a similar feeling, or yoga for people whose hamstrings actually allow them into the full expression of a pose, or playing an instrument for musicians who can play so well that they can just let go and let Bach.

    Throughout high school, college, and my years in summer stock, theater served as the vehicle to express my potential and maybe God-given talents, but mostly it served my joy. Until it didn’t. In my first experience among Equity stage actors, I noticed how they withheld from the bonding and affection we kids gave so freely to each other. Professional actors, it seemed to me, found their joy in their work—but undeniably it became work. Perhaps a life of goodbyes and next gigs does that to a person. The hierarchy of professional vs. amateur stymied the dressing room schmoozing. People didn’t hand out heartfelt notes on opening night, nor stay out all night after closing the show, writhing to Aretha Franklin while eating nachos and crying.

    The harder it became for me to find acting jobs after college–combined with missing that bonding with my cast cohort—the more I fell out of love with the work. Also, after eight years performing, theater became more and more about the audience for me. Without easy access to an audience, I no longer invested in the work of acting. I got lazy about honing my skills and craft, and my auditions reflected my malaise. Wanting to hang out with my fiancé scarfing quesadillas on our couch at night instead of rehearse in roach-infested storefront theatres might’ve impacted my decision a tad, too.

    Today I realize the opposite has happened for me with blogging and writing. Flattering comments about my humor and writing used to give me a high once reserved for fun-dip and New Coke.  Since founding LTYM, I’ve noticed the half-life of praise shrinking. I still get an endorphin ping with a re-tweet or “like”– and part of me misses that intoxicating trip that used to set me sailing in a sea of ego—but mostly I’m relieved that neither praise nor rejection sets the tone for my entire day, sends me adrift, nor defines my self-worth to such an extent. 

    Despite the fact I no longer spend a fraction of the hours here that I used to, today I keep this blog going less for the applause (or hate mail) and more for the same reasons I originated it—for the writing discipline and practice, and because I love the cast of characters in this community. The irony is that the LTYM behemoth that keeps me from blogging as I used to and would like to, also affords me the equanimity to focus again on the work for its own sake.

    I still love my cast. I want to eat nachos with you and writhe to Aretha Franklin, and remain part of this thriving creative online community as long as I can sustain it. But instead of craning my neck around the wings comparing last night’s audience to tonight’s, you might find me backstage spinning around in a pink tutu.

    ***

    Three years ago a post like this would’ve kept me buzzing for days—maybe even weeks? I would’ve written a post that very moment and linked back to it with pride and in gratitude. What has happened to me? Am I an ingrate? Thank you, Alexandra The Empress, for honoring me among such an exquisite group of bloggers and women. Your boundless positivity, graciousness and prolific talent inspires all of us and makes blogland brighter.

    0 thoughts on “The Shrinking Half-life of Praise”

    1. Aww Ann, you big goofball 🙂 let me just say it’s been a kick watching you grow. Really it has. From the time you interviewed me about Lisa-Lisa and singing into hairbrushes to now….I’ve never been prouder of you. That is until tomorrow… Take that , half-life!

    2. I left the stage (opera, musical theater) 18 years ago for the same reason, Ann. It became work, hard work, and I didn’t get the same buzz from it. I went looking for a new drug and discovered writing. And now, years later, I’m facing public readings of my writing and stand-up and and and… the stage. The audience. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was petrified, but still there persists a feeling of coming home, of things turning out okay in the end.

      Thank you for spinning, and thank you for giving others the chance to spin.

    3. I read a piece a year or so or maybe three ago about the momentary hit we get from comments, etc., everything you’re referencing here, and how fleeting that is, and how little it has to do with the value of what we’re doing or not and it made me mindful. I still get caught up sometimes — which is mostly a sign that something else is going on that I need to attend to — but reclaiming my posting practice has been so much more useful for other reasons since then. (Which is my clumsy way of saying yes, I get it.)

      I will still, however, keep telling you how great you are, just for kicks.

    4. You f**king rock, girl. What a kickass post. I love you.

      How’s THAT for praise? I’ll ping your endorphins any time you beautiful thing.

    5. I love this, too, because you explain the real reason I blog. It’s the place where I can express myself and exercise my creative muscle. It’s way better than telling stories to the bored cats and rearranging furniture which is how I used to express and exercise.

    6. Love this. Love the peace I hear running quietly beneath this. Love your courage and your humor and your kindness. Love you.

    7. You throw these little details in that instantly transport me to the spot. The exact spot you are talking about. “…turned your infected starter earrings…” did it for me this time. I like your writing a lot.

    8. May we all get to the point where neither praise nor rejection sets the tone for an entire day. What a freeing place to be.

    9. Oh, Ann. This is the best EVER. I kinda felt like I was reading my own story, since I also traveled the road from actress to writer. And after two years of blogging, I am just getting to the point where I’m happy to spin backstage in my pink tutu, in fact, that’s been my mindset of late, although not so eloquently expressed. I do love you. Sincerely.

    10. I have only been blogging a little over a year and have experienced the same. When the elation subsides, I feel like a crack whore waiting for the next hit. Until someone notices and compliments me I was lethargic. I learned to walk away and write because I like writing.

    11. I agree with Dusty Mother. The best ever.
      Oh Ann. I find myself tearing up. This was amazingly beautiful and just shows the depth of your writing and your giving nature.
      I love you as much as Santorum loves Jesus.

    12. I love this. In my past life as an artist, I could never discipline myself to do it for the love of it — it was always for the exhibition, the competition, the sale. It didn’t live in my heart. My blogging has gone through many phases, starting with pure documentation, moving to a revived love of writing, although the only people reading were my friends and family. When I look it public, I felt those highs you talk about with retweets and comments. But I recently decided that I needed to get back to blogging for me. I still want to share it with everyone, but I’m not going to write a post because I think it will be the most fantastic post ever, and I don’t want to avoid writing a post because I think it will be too mundane for anyone to read. This is my space, and when I look back on the writing I did when no one was reading? I kind of like it.

    13. This entire post is like a bucket of grace. Thank you!

      I started blogging because it allowed me to release all the craziness in my mind. I found that I loved working on and crafting whatever words came out during these brain dumps. I have had my days consumed with the high of praise though, as well as the ones filled with anger and a few tears over feeling so misunderstood, or worse…ignored.

      I need to stay cenetered in what this blog is for me. This is my sanctuary, my joy, and totally mine, whereas the rest of my life currently, with three small children seems mostly theirs.

      Some days I vent, some days I make lists of randomness, some days I write recipes to famous people for the pure amusement of doing it. The joy I get from writing all this is really all that is real.

      Thanks for a great post!

    14. As you know, I love your writing. But I also love your spirit and your perspective. This is such a balanced and thoughtful way to think about the value of blogging — and the power of community — not just to provide that candy-coated high but to provide instead the rich comfort of sustaining food. Even when we pop in and out of the world because real life gets in the way of writing.

      PS If on the off chance I actually get into a conference scheduled for Madison in late September, could I persuade you to meet me for a meal or a drink one day?

    15. I’ve been up since 3 am. Just for kicks. I do that sometimes. Like when I said “I want to be a producer!” and you took me seriously. Why did you do that, anyway? Crazy lady. ANYway. I have been up, and writing a little piece to the LTYM to explain how honored I am to be on THIS side of a production, helping other people’s dreams come true. It’s kind of like Motherhood, actually; putting others before yourself and reveling in the glow they give off… Thank you, Ann for picking me. You made me glow. 🙂

    16. I have a 100 things to say. Which is why I love reading your blog so much. There is always some tidbit that if we were having this conversation IRL I would jump up and say “me too, yadda yadda yadda”

      I spent so much of my childhood wrapped up in my imagination. My two best friends and I would play these elaborate games that were essentially very long improv plays in which we would each assume a character and go through a very convoluted plot. I would always turn out to be a villain pretending to be a good guy. (I have yet to decide what that means) I wish I had the courage to pursue acting, which I have always loved and wanted to do. But I just didn’t have the gumption necessary.

      You 100% deserve all the praise you get for your wonderful writing.

    17. From the funny (opening story, infected starter earring) to the grounded, you pack so much into one little blog. Thank you for telling the truth about your life. Like someone else said: I feel less lonely reading your writing. Thank you.

    18. I love this whole damn post; especially the astute observation about kid-stage-voice.(I’m looking at you Nellie Oleson!)

      You see, I never could shake the accent I adopted (for Polly in The Boyfriend) at the tender age of 13.

      My mom convinced me FakeBritish was okay in Oliver! and Robin Hood and The Fantastiks. (Kind of.)

      But Fiddler on the Roof?
      Yeah. Cockney Hodel was just uncomfortable.

      Also, I can’t act. (See again: Nellie Oleson!)

      But I did eat nachos and writhe to Aretha with the best of them.
      (Or at the very least, the next-to-last of them.)

      So thank you, Ann/Cindy. For making me smile.
      In any accent. All the time.

    19. Hi – just found your blog (through McSweeney’s actually) and you are so funny. I’ll be back for more – and I’ll bring the nachos…

    20. Ann Imig…you are one of the realest women I’ve ever met.

      My heart just keeps growing in size when I come across people like you on the internet.

      Almost brings me to tears with the level of authenticity and awareness and the realness of life I’ve found in the past four years since I discovered blogs.

      What beautiful, beautiful people I”ve come to know.

      I am so very lucky.

    21. FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. You are one smart cookie, Ann (no ‘e’). This post resonates (I just wrote one about the big wave of ego too) – and the title is brilliant. I am so, so very glad I found you.
      Mwah!

    22. Phew… For a minute there I thought you were going to tell us you were not going to blog any more. Glad it wasn’t that :-))))

      You know you are my writing hero, Ann. Please keep doing what you’re doing and loving every minute of it.

      xo jj

    23. I didn’t realize that you were in theater. Loved learning that about you. I totally get what you are saying about the praise and the work. Your post was refreshing to read! I feel like I can identify.

    24. I relate to this so much – I mean, without the busy with a huge and exciting nationally reaching project part. I think I post something of substance once a month (if that!) when I used to average 3-5 days a week. And weeks will go by when I can’t find time to open my google reader. I think blogging is a lot like marriage. You get comfortable and distracted (especially when you have kids: Twitter, FaceBook). And it’s a lot of work to keep the spark of those early days going.

      Really loved this one. Not sure why it took me so long to comment…(oh right – see above).

    25. I was so much like that as a kid too. And my daughter has the drama in spades. And I pretty much still want praise for my blog so feel free to head over.

      No just kidding. You know, I really have to figure out what this LTYM is all about. I don’t quite get it since I’m not in the States and haven’t actually seen it. I just read that Sassy Curmudgeon is going to be part of it. She’s funny. 🙂