Confessions of a Compulsive Quitter

I really have only one memory of one of the last times I was on stage: the applause. I know that there were months of rehearsal that lead to that point. Training with vocal coaches to perfect the cockney accent; days with a Broadway (yes, Broadway!) choreographer to hone those ale-house jigs; and hours spent blocking scenes, memorizing lines, and painting sets. But, oh that applause. All of that agonizing preparation pales when I think of that giant curtsey, those bright lights, and those ecstatic cheers from the faceless silhouettes in the audience. It is a moment I’ve frozen vividly and embellished for sure. There are times I’ll return to that moment confident that I received a standing ovation – sometimes even an encore, and most definitely a “bravo!” from someone in the audience (not related to me.) It is a moment that I cherish passionately – one that was defining and pivotal in my life. I was an actress. And I would make it my life’s mission to remain just that and come out on top.

That was over fifteen years ago. I never made it to Broadway, exactly, (my last office is on the corner of 42nd and the-place-I always-dreamed-of-but-never-had-the-guts-to-pursue.) With the exception of drunken karaoke I think I’ve sang six – maybe seven – times in public since the curtain fell on my adolescence. I could give you a slew of excuses: the theater program in my high school sucked (though one of my former classmates did go on to win a Tony Award.) My parents didn’t support my career (they didn’t, really, but just wanted to me to go to college and have a back-up plan.) I worked several hours a week when I was in college and didn’t have time to concentrate on theater (which is true, but the Gap tended to be flexible when it came to schedules for its university student employees.) Bottom line is I gave up something I loved with no good excuse. And that makes me wonder: does it mean I loved it less than I think I did? Or, worse, was I so afraid of failing at it that I never even tried? Cliché, perhaps, but possible. Even likely. Or am I just one of those people? Bad with follow-through. Head in the clouds. Loses interest easily. You know: a quitter.

Performing isn’t the only thing I’ve quit. My mother will be happy to tell you about all of the money she spent on ballet, jazz, tennis, figure skating, cello, piano, violin, and guitar lessons when I was younger. (Sorry Mom, am I forgetting anything?) My hobby, it seemed, was finding new hobbies. When I grew tired with one, I started another. My sister, on the other hand, five years younger, who had a mother, now five years wiser, had to suffer through cello lessons, and cello lessons alone for nine straight years. My mother agreed to let her quit at age eighteen if she so chose. On her eighteenth birthday, before the girl even had a chance to run out and register to vote, I believe she snapped the bow straight over her knee at the dinner table – just for dramatic effect. It makes me wonder: who’s better off? Me, who spent years dabbling in this and that, never quite focusing on one thing and now regretting having given up all of them? Or her, who spent nine years of her life devoted (I use the term loosely,) to one, beautiful instrument she’ll never touch again prohibiting her from trying something new? It’s funny, really. Two such different experiences and yet we’re both a couple of quitters. Maybe it’s in the genes.

A couple of years ago I decided that my quitting days were behind me. That I was going to do what I could to reclaim what I had lost. So, I signed up for voice lessons with one of the most renowned instructors in Manhattan. So I sounded like shit in the shower, big deal. This guy was my ticket. He’d help me find my voice and in no time I’d be ready for the Great White Way. For over a year I met with Phil and I sang – no, I sang my ass off. First scales, then songs I chose (mostly show tunes – I love my show tunes.) I had a microphone, a piano accompaniment, and a duet when I needed one (Phil had a great voice.)

And you know what? I stunk. Really. In the beginning I told myself I needed more practice when that cacophony emerged from my pretty mouth, and that’s what Phil said too (for a $70 half hour anyone would have to agree.) But after a year, and thousands of dollars, and still thousands more hours away from ever being good enough to even audition at an open call, I quit again. But this time it wasn’t because I was bored or fascinated by something else. This time it was because I had the strength to admit that however much I wanted to be great, wishing wasn’t enough. That while quitting isn’t as glamorous as a dressing room with your very own star, sometimes it’s just what you need to do to be true to yourself. Maybe I would have been a great pianist, or gymnast or potter if I had just stuck with it, but I do know that what’s next on my list is to try to quit worrying about it.