When I was in high school, I starred in a production of THE
MAN WHO CAME TO DINNER, a delightful comedy that called for the annoying
character I was playing to be put in an Egyptian sarcophagus and carried off
stage, much to the delight of the cheering audience. I thought the elaborate gold spray-painted
box was beautiful and I was thrilled at the thought of being lifted by several
a strong, cute boys – until they put me in it.
I don’t know why it never occurred to me how dark it would be in a
closed box, and how terrifyingly out of control I would feel in there. As I was turned over until the box was perpendicular
to the floor and then carried turbulently above it, I broke out in a cold sweat
– I had no way of knowing where I was or how much longer I would be in that
thing. I screamed, but everyone thought
it was part of my performance, so I beat on the lid and begged to be let out,
but it only made people think I was a brilliantly committed actress. It wasn’t until the guys had carried me backstage
and carefully placed me upright that the door was swung open and I came
tumbling out, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face. My kind drama teacher calmly explained that I
was experiencing claustrophobia and that it would pass as soon as I took a few
deep breaths. She then wisely had the
prop people drill a few holes in the sarcophagus so that I could see out,
giving me an illusion of control and a sense of place that enabled me to bear
the three minute confinement, and thankfully the remaining performances were
incident free. But I learned a valuable
lesson that day: I hate being put in a box.
So imagine my surprise when I discovered just last week that
I have been putting myself in a box for years.
I was at lunch with an executive talking over potential projects we
might work on together when he told me that what he was really in the market
for was a good female-driven thriller. I
smiled politely and told him, “Sorry, I’m not a thriller kind of girl. I’m more of a lighthearted rom/com and
inspirational drama girl.” He looked at
me for a moment and then said quite plainly, “I don’t accept that.” I half choked on a Brussels sprout as he went
on to tell me that I was a great writer and as such I should be able to write
anything I set my mind to. And then he
added the real kicker, “Why are you trying to limit yourself?” In that moment, he didn’t bother drilling a
few holes in my self-built sarcophagus; he blew the lid right off.
On the way home I tried to recall when I had constructed
that little box that I had been writing in and I suddenly remembered a moment
in the first creative writing class that I took in college. I had poured my heart into a dramatic story
titled For Better or Worse about the
tragic failure of a marriage (very heady stuff for a freshman). When the professor handed the paper back to
me, he told me it was one of the funniest things he had read in a long time,
and that I had a real gift for “tragi-comedy”.
Apparently the mention of the spouses sharing their last bowl of ramen
noodles was comedic gold. Thinking back
on it now, I’m sure the self-seriousness must’ve been pretty funny, but at the
time, I was crushed. So I decided
somewhere deep inside that I would never try to be taken seriously in my
writing again – that I would stick to lighthearted faire so that when people
laughed at my work in the future, it would be because I wanted them to.
All these years later that little internal agreement had
turned into: “I don’t do thriller. Or horror.
Or serious drama.” Which led to a
wonderful career that from time to time inexplicably careened into roadblocks. Until last week’s lunch when, just as that
one fateful moment in class had sent me into the safety of a box of my own
design, suddenly this one meeting had freed me from its artificial limitations. In fact, on the way home from the restaurant,
I came up with two exciting thriller ideas before I had even pulled into the driveway!
The funny thing about boxes is that even if they are gold
plated and beautifully adorned on the outside, on the inside it’s still a just
a dark, stuffy place. I have always
thought it was cool that the word “inspiration” comes from the same root word
as “breath”…and it is no wonder that when we have the courage to open the door
that fear has sealed shut, the fresh air can bring with it a world of new
possibilities.
Has fear of being laughed at or judged ever kept you from
doing or trying something you’ve always wanted to? Have you put limitations on yourself, or
allowed others to? I challenge you this
week to step outside your box in some way that scares you. Talk to that cute girl at work who you think
is “out of your league”; if you have a great voice but have never stepped
outside the shower, find somewhere public to sing; start that novel you’ve been
thinking about for years; and if you’ve got great legs, for heaven’s sake, go
buy a short skirt and flaunt ‘em!
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