Imperfect thoughts on making plays

I could tell you my earliest memory of going to school was that I got teased for my habit of humming while peeing in the girls washroom or that I had a major crush on a boy named Grant (he wore glasses… we shared pencil crayons… he was pretty much perfect), but I’d be lying. This is my earliest memory:

I was in kindergarten. Another little girl and I were playing with blocks on the carpet. Everything was primary-coloured goodness. Until the teacher announced it was time to clean up. Like the good little girl I was, I starting putting away the blocks and my block buddy didn’t. So, I hit her. Hard.

I got in trouble. I cried. I had to put my head down on my desk while everyone lined up for recess. I remember looking up at my classmates and feeling so ashamed… so embarrassed and mad at myself for being such a little jackass. I also felt simultaneously infuriated! It was an INJUSTICE! Sure, I shouldn’t have hit her, but my little block buddy didn’t hold up her end of the bargain. It wasn’t FAIR! I played by the rules and did everything right, but I still got the short end of the stick. That’s not how the universe works!

Fast forward a couple decades later… Here I am working on the premiere of Celeste Percy Beauregard’s Well Born: a play about a pregnant woman named Liz who finds out there’s a 50% chance that her child will be born with a disability. That’s a hard pill for anyone to swallow, but Liz is adopted and so her medical history and her feelings about new motherhood are, to say the least, extremely complicated.

Everyone who’s come within 10 feet of this play has playfully pointed out that I am Liz (to be fair, I also started calling myself on it just to beat people to the punch). FYI: I’m not pregnant, not adopted, and I have an awesome relationship with my mom (Hi Shirley! My mom is totally going to read this blog post). What Liz and I have in common is that we are perfectionists.

My lifelong struggle and undying love affair with perfectionism could be the topic of a very long, weird, neurotic book that no one would want to read. Liz could write one, too. We could co-ordinate a joint book launch at Indigo. It would be extremely well-organized and our novel jackets would be matching.

In all seriousness… At its core, perfectionism is a major theme in Celeste’s play: Liz wants her child, her relationships, her genes, and her future to be – in one way or another – perfect. Liz wants to know things are going to turn out just fine. She wants to feel secure. She wants guarantees.

Well… what happens when the universe throws a curveball like your block buddy being a big dink or your doctor announcing that your prenatal tests came back with majorly complicated results? Liz’s world is flipped upside and she winds up trapped at an all-you-can-feel emotional buffet.

Sounds intense and it is, but Celeste is a smart, weird, and hilarious playwright who has miraculously written a play about disabilities, adoption, and abortion that also features a talking plastic baby, a crack whore, a well-timed Adele song, and a ridiculous joke about Ronald Regan. It blows my mind that these wacky and dark things live in the same world (seriously, well done, Celeste!!).

Playing a character that hits so close to home in addition to the intensity of premiering a new play have made me painfully aware of my Little Miss. Perfect status. Even as I’m writing this Martha Graham quotes are dancing around in my head regarding the “queer, divine dissatisfaction” of art-making which are beautiful and true, but every artist can relate to the louder more obnoxious voices in our heads that tell us that we suck, that theatre school was a waste of money, that audiences won’t come (or if they do they won’t actually like it), that reviewers will pick a heartbreaking adjective to describe our work, and that we’ll be serving tables until we’re so old and bitter that we decide to go be old and bitter at some 9-to-5 job our parents’ friends hook us up with in Whitby.

I’m in full recognition (and denial) that perfectionism isn’t achievable in life or (especially) in theatre. I’m in full recognition (and denial) that perfectionism impedes creativity. And I’m in full recognition (and denial) that this is the part of the blog post where I’m supposed to say that it all turned out just fine, and it’s all very rewarding and fulfilling work, and I’m so #blessed and #grateful.

And it is all fine and I am very grateful and I am super lucky. Believe me, I’m not writing this because I want encouragement or positive affirmation. And part of me feels gross and guilty because I know there are far more important things in the world to be discussing than my late night musings on perfectionism (#firstworldproblems).

Truthfully, I’m writing to say things everyone already knows:

1) making theatre is really, really hard and it isn’t perfect;

2) life isn’t fair and it definitely isn’t perfect;

3) there are going to be days when we’d rather hit someone than clean up our blocks alone.

In celebration, reluctant acceptance, or straight-up escapism from swallowing those three jagged little pills … I invite you to come see my imperfect performance in an imperfect play as an imperfect woman struggling the accept the imperfect nature of the universe (it’s so meta). We only have three shows left. From my imperfect heart to yours, I hope to see you there.

And for the record, I have nothing against Whitby.