Working Performer

When I first announced that I wanted to be an actress, my mother was supportive. In the next breath she quipped, “They say Thank God for the actors in New York. That way, the restaurants are fully staffed.”

My father wasn’t as glib about the whole affair. Flat out, devoid of emotion yet filled with practicality, he advised, “Get a real job.”

After my freshmen year of high school, I was admitted into a Pre-College program at Carnegie Mellon University. One of the most prestigious acting programs in the land, this was an honor, albeit a costly one. The curriculum was to mimic conservatory training like one would have at a four year BFA Program like Carnegie Mellon. Hopefuls, many who dreamed of Carnegie Mellon especially, came from all over the country to have a taste of this drama boot camp. Some of the older kids especially were dying for the mock auditions, because if they did well it could mean early admit into CMU.

All summer, we learned the difference between BFA and BA, and which each meant. BFA was all acting, and BA was more or less liberal arts. We had one monologue class with a woman by the name of Helena Sharpe. A former NYU dramat in the early days of the Tisch program, Helena had New York under her belt so we were more apt to listen closely to her. When she spoke of her college days, she told us horror stories of a cut system, meaning each class had so many students entering, and then they only would graduate a few. Several law suits later, NYU and many programs like it have done away with this antiquated practice. Now they just make school so hard that if a student can’t hack it, they simply drop out. Helena told us that each semester she used to get stomach ulcers fearing she would be sent home.

Helena had done the whole actress thing in New York for a few years. When she spoke of her time in the city, she told us horror story after horror story of how hard work and talent did not equal success. Helena mentioned a successful career had more to do with look and luck. In the next breath, she reiterated that this would not be fair. Helena then relayed that many actors she knew spent their yout waiting tables, and developed no other skills other than those required to manage a restaurant. After several years of being married, she and her husband had relocated to Pittsburgh after he got an adjunct professorship at the University of Pittsburgh in their Theatre Department. Now she more or less taught. Helena explained she wanted a family, and not the chaos of an acting career.

Either way, between NYU and New York itself, this woman seemed angry. Later I realized she wasn’t angry, just beaten down by a profession that doesn’t really want the people who enter it. I will never forget Helena’s pained piece of advice, “If you can picture yourself doing something else, please do it. The world needs creative and talented people everywhere. The theatre is only one place. Have a house, have a bed, have a life.”

After my Pre-College training ended, I stepped up my game by taking acting classes Saturday morning at Point Park, another Pittsburgh college with a respected performing arts program. Our teacher, Jackie McDaniel, was the wife of a well-known Pittsburgh actor, writer, and teacher. She herself brought drama programs to inner-city youth and I assisted her.

Jackie wanted us to know the truth about our decision so we were not surprised by how brutal our career choice was. While she had never done the New York grind, her husband Bill had. For a few years he had acted before deciding to return home, thus meeting Jackie in a show. The showmance turned into 30 years of marriage and 2 children, one a computer engineer and the other a missionary. Translated, not actors.

At the start of the class, because we were all shooting for the big name acting programs, Jackie handed us a print out of the employment statistics and income of a New York actor. To say this was grim was a complete understatement. Yes, it was a ten percent employment rate and a meager yearly income. In the next breath, Jackie told us big jobs were hard to get, and some producers would try to sleep with us. Jackie also made us lists other interests we could fall back on if acting were not to work out. “I want you to know the facts.” She said.

Then as some of the kids in our class, myself included, began to audition for the big name schools, many were rejected. Luckily I got into NYU, but did not get admission by two other name schools, one being Carnegie Mellon. I was happy about NYU because it had been my first choice. While CMU’s rejection stung, I had lived in Pittsburgh my entire life and wanted to see other parts of the world. However, others in my class didn’t share my fate. Many were turned down by all their first choice schools, and the letters of rejection came like a rainstorm. Jackie assured them that they could get an undergrad at a state school, train, and then an MFA from a top program. Still, in their meltdown as their dreams were being killed they didn’t want to hear this. With the same mix of tough love and caring, Jackie stated, “Much of your life will be rejection. Don’t cry, get used to it.”

One Saturday, Jackie had us do improv, aka silent scenes. The assignment was to be as if in a given situation. There was one girl in our class, Tiffany, who stomped and whistled at a local musical theatre program in town. She was given a dance scholarship to Michigan despite her impressively low SAT score, but dropped out of the program later because she didn’t get to spend enough time with her boyfriend.

Jackie instructed Tiffany to act as if she was a working actor in New York getting on an elevator. Tiffany entered the pretend elevator like anyone. Jackie then stopped her. Infuriated, Jackie screamed, “No! No! No! Stop. In New York, if you are a working actor you are like a God. Do you know how many terrible jobs you probably had to work before you got that role! Give it some confidence!”

Tiffany took the note and tried again. With her beautiful dancer body, she stood up like Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Strutting like a high priced call girl, she entered the pretend elevator and pressed the button. Yeah, she was owning it. Tiffany had it. This was my dream, to be a working performer in New York. It was my dream to enter the elevator like a sexy beast. It was my dream to be that mythical creature of envy.

So it went. I completed my BFA at NYU. To support myself I got a job delivering singing telegrams. With the comedy, sometimes I would book headlining gigs but there is no money in standup. I paid my dues doing freebee shows in basements and bars. I got some paid puppet gigs and dinner theatre stuff, but the rest was freebee theatre and film work. Yes, in order to earn one’s wings you must first be slave labor.

Over time, I have also seen that Helena, Jackie, and my parents were not being cruel. Rather, they were giving me the God’s honest truth. This profession is brutal. Over the years, as Helena said, I have seen some of my peers squander their youth waiting tables. There have been times when I was on my way to deliver a singing telegram and an old friend from studio was there wiping the table top with their hard earned, very expensive BFA. Of course we said hi, and I relayed that I was working a day job as well. Wistfully, they reminded, “At least your day job is in performing.”

Sure, I had gotten lucky with that. When performing slowed, I was forced to flyer and do promos which sucked. Still, I had really lucked out. My boss has always been wonderful, letting me take off time to audition and film whatever television spot I might land. He has also recommended me for modelling and television opportunities as well, and even let me wear the captain’s jacket on a project regarding our company and my book. Not to mention my coworkers can be seen at any swing club singing or on television randomly themselves. We are all top notch at the outfit I work at.

Over time, I have been forced to deal with the terrible politics of my profession. There have been times I wished I was male, because then perhaps I would not have to work so hard. On other occasions, I have seen some talentless nitwits ascend to heights that both disturbed and puzzled me. Note, these talentless nitwits had a certain look and connections. I have seen fluzzies sleep their way to the middle, trying to make their career on their backs. Hell, I have had male promoters assert their gender over me, demanding I sleep with them in order to grace their shiteous stage. Or when success did come my way, there were male headliners who reminded me the only reason I got any success was because there was a woman needed for the spot, a shitty dig from a jealous person. Then there were women who spread rumors about these imaginary people I slept with. Add in two creative partners who tried to throw me under a bus and stab me in the back. Then chances where I almost got something big but it fell through, or momentum that got delayed and a domino effect of setbacks. I have lived through hell and eaten shit. Yes kids, I have paid my dues.

Now I know why Helena Sharpe was as intense as she was. She was beaten up, tired, and just brutalized beyond comprehension. Jackie had never done New York, but the horror stories form her husband and former students were so intense it made her never want to go.

However, this past year, my dream became a reality. I became a performer who worked consistently. Yes, I became that mythical beast everyone speaks about in New York. After a winter of questioning if I still wanted to do this, work came pouring in. Granted, technically I have always been a working performer through the telegrams. However, this was different. I was booking big stuff.

For starters, my DVD taping at a high profile cabaret venue was a success, and people brought my DVD including several fans in Europe and Australia. Now my DVD streams online. Around this time I also got a job as a talking head for a mobile device covering The World Cup. I had always wanted to do sports broadcasting so this fabulous opportunity was a gift. After which I got a hidden camera pilot where I made several awesome contacts and it paid my rent for most of July. Add in a puppet film that made the Top 200 in Project Greenlight. Then a photo shoot with a photographer from Hearst. My book signing was a success and sales skyrocketed. For nearly four months in a row, I didn’t have money troubles and rent paid itself. I was finally that mythical creature.

However, being a working performer means work. Being a mythical creature means a lot of running around, and it sucks when you can’t fly or teleport for real. The night of my DVD taping, I didn’t feel like a diva but rather someone who was overworked and who’s brain was exploding. After the event, I was so fried I couldn’t speak. Then when I headlined the theatre, the one show was small but the other was sold out. I found myself telling the producer how to do his job. Granted, I was right but now I felt less like a diva and more like a threadbare, overworked, angst ridden lonely woman who had sacrificed the better part of a decade. The film shoots meant early mornings, and weird sleeping schedules which led to some interesting encounters aka snapping at customers and staff at Amy’s Bread because I was so worn out. Then the other late nights and projects led to more hissy fits and feeling like I was run ragged. On top of that, I was stressed because I had worked forever for these opportunities and I didn't want to screw them up. So I started to have panic attacks that scared me. 

One day, I remember feeling so tired that I had nothing to give anyone, anywhere. My mother asked me if I was dating during a phone conversation. I exploded, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that! I have no time for myself!!!”

My schedule was stressful and wouldn’t let up. At the time, I was taking a graduate level writing seminar and wondered why the hell I had even signed up. While I enjoyed the class, I always felt like it was just one more thing I had to do. My mother always called me afterwards. Sometimes I would snap on the phone. Other times I just screamed. She asked me about the photo shoot with the man from Hearst, and if I was sure he wouldn’t kill me. Looking back, she was being a mother. I yelled in the middle of Duane Reade, “Mom, if he killed me I could sleep forever. My life is fucking demanding. Could I be so goddamn lucky!!!”

After that I walked into a tampon display. If that is not the definition of winning I don’t know what is. Either way, my schedule was starting to burn me out. I yelled into the phone as my boss called me for jobs. I wasn't mad, I was just that burnt out. Eating become optional, which was probably why some of my behavior was so off kilter. Coffee became a food group. This same behavior had burned me when I was nineteen, my first year of college. Yet here I was doing the same thing as I felt overwhelmed. I didn't like who I was becoming, and I was worried about the door I was opening as the panic attacks got worse and worse. While I still did well when I was called upon for a job, my screwed up state made it hard for me to leave the house. I thought I had left April the People Pleasing Neurotic at NYU freshmen year. She was back and working harder than ever. I felt in my gut I was not worthy of the work I booked, and somehow still had to work hard just to be on the same level as my cast mates. Nevermind I was booking the damn lead. 

My body constantly ached for no reason whatsoever. Exercising become near impossible as I always felt so wan, weak, and frail. My refrigerator broke, and rather than fix it, I kept food in the top part because it chilled my perishables to some extent. So when I did eat, I got very sick. I was too busy to have my appliance repaired, so I just kept getting sick. 

One evening, as things got bad, I was lying down on my stomach to sleep. My mattress felt uncomfortable so I readjusted it not once, not twice, but three times. Finally, I realized it wasnt the mattress. Going over to my mirror, I saw between my coffee diet, forgetting to eat, and getting ill when I did that I had lost so much weight my ribs were actually piercing my skin in my selected sleeping position! This is what I had always wanted, but now my dream had become my nightmare. Tired and feeling alone, I cried myself to sleep. 

Life got worse before it got better. I began to feel as if my performances were off, and blanked out during assignments because my brain was so tired. During a visit home, my mom told some old neighbors of mine from back home I was coming to a party. I yelled and screamed at her to the point of being abusive for making this decision without my consent. If anyone else would have spoken to my mother like this, I would have killed them. My mom told me to shut up, and informed me I could leave early. While these neighbors are great people that I adore, I fell asleep at dinner. My mother walked me home and put me to bed. 

The next day, my dad noticed the dark circles under my eyes. More often than not, I was distant like the Martin Sheen character in Apocalypse Now. My father, concerned, informed my mother I needed to rest. Did he think I was lying when I spoke about my schedule? I was a working performer. We didnt look like divas because we were working Goddamn it. I was one of the few, the proud, the gainfully employed stage performing and paid. Where was my metal?

Shortly after my meltdown at my family's house, I spoke to my mentor. A Broadway vet named Melina, she told me I needed to continue to rest and recommended I get educated on nutrition. She also suggested I get my refrigerator fixed. During our session, we discussed now it was okay to say no, and how the word yes was wonderful, but not when your dance card was overloaded. 

Things slowed down shortly thereafter. I took Melina's suggestion, educating myself on health and exercise. I consulted my trainer mother about what foods were best for someone with a stressful life, and filled my refrigerator with them. That is, after the thing got fixed. I also began to spend time with my friends, and realized that they liked me for me regardless of how my career was going. While it meant leaving my diva at the door, I hit open mics just to remember how it felt to have he sheer joy of making others laugh for the right reason. I wrote jokes. I dreamed new puppet characters. I drafted scripts. To feel inspired, I read plays and watched movies by genius directors with actors I loved. Once upon a time, I had done this as a teen in Pittsburgh. Yes, the same teen who dreamed of being a working performer. 

It got worse before it got better. When the phone stopped ringing, the panic that I would never work again set in. I wanted so desperately to go to the next level that every audition and writing packet submission had my bloody claw marks all over it. Then I realized that in my quest to prove to everyone that I could be a working performer, I had forgotten to be a person. In a career that demands I be a human, I had turned into a robot that kept going. The problem is, I am not a robot that can keep going. I am in fact a person. Working or not, despite popular belief, I was not a mythical creature at any point. I had worked so hard to prove myself to so many people, and in the end I was just becoming a crazy woman. 

However, things got better. One change I got was a commedia event where I worked with an ensemble who was all very good. There was no weak link amongst us. For the most part improv, it was amazing how well we all worked together. There was no stage hog, and everyone took turns with the spotlight and we supported each other. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I didn’t feel like the girl who had been on TV or the one who’s film was at a certain spot in the competition. I wasn’t obsessing over who was paying attention to me. I was onstage making people laugh and that’s all that mattered.

Once upon a time, that had been all that mattered in my journey. I got onstage because I liked to tell stories, entertain people. I wrote because I liked to tell my own stories. Then in my flashback, I saw poor Helena, who had been beaten by the eternally honest city I have come to call home. While she was happy as a professor and mother, all she ever got in New York was low/no wage theatre work. She would have died to switch places with me as a young woman. Jackie had been proud of me when I got admitted into NYU, and whenever she is asked she chirps about her student who went to New York, is on television, and is still there. Yes, I am doing all the things she had been so afraid to do. 

Many kids from my Pre-College program went running after that summer. They wanted lives, and conservatory training coupled with a job plagued with economic uncertainty was too much for them. Then my peers from my Saturday class at Point Park, aside from one who is on Broadway periodically with the voice of an angel, none are acting. Getting rejected from the big schools crushed their young spirits, and they didn’t want to sign on for a life that would continue to reduce their self-esteem.

As I realized that, I came to see being a working performer is not a chore or burden but rather a gift I am continually humbled by. This year in particular, I have been blessed to work with amazing casts and crews, and have a plethora of co-stars that I adore as artists and people. I wouldn’t want to trade them for anything.

My phone is ringing again. This past Friday I filmed some talking head commentary for a television show, and then filmed a movie Monday. My dad’s friend from high school is using I Came, I Saw, I Sang as a part of her book club. God willing, my phone will continue to ring. As the opportunities get bigger, I see my dream of performing at Carnegie Hall and Sydney Opera House with my puppet children becoming a reality. Of course, in there my manager needs some things from me and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I have one now. That was another gift of my hard work this summer.

As my workload increases, I will try not to run around like a crazy woman from one of those Netflix horror films. Instead, I will take care of my body, but most importantly, myself. This is not just for me, but everyone who dreams of being a working performer trying to earn their wings. Like Tiffany did once upon a time in our acting class exercise, I will own that working performer skin. I will own it everywhere I freaking go. Lord only knows I have earned it.

But before any diva strutting can be done, I must first get something to eat. Haven’t quite had that second meal of the day yet. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Put on Some Make Up (Hedwig)

The ladder part of last week and this week have been like a trip, a mind fuck if you will. All summer I have been blessed to have a full dance card. In between filmings, writing gigs, broadcasting, puppets, and other funskis my rent has managed to pay itself. Not to mention I got an "A" in my writing class, thanks for asking. But lately I have been feeling "BLAH!"

Sunday things came to a crazy head. I ended up getting into a fight with an angry teenager on twitter. He reminded me I left my ex for my puppets in his fit of rage. Nevermind he was stewing in cyberspace and I said something snarky. I guess he wanted to stew alone, and made the mistake of stewing on cyberspace and I should have left the kid alone to stew. Of course I didn't know it was a kid. You get everyone on twitter. One minute he is dropping the "c" bomb. The next minute he is whining about how he doesn't want to go back to school. It's all teen angst, but now it is live on the internet. In my day we just closed the door, put on Nine Inch Nails, and emoted alone.

As he was yelling and screaming, part of me wanted to tell him it was going to be alright. Then I remember feeling like I wanted to jump out a window myself. I wanted to rant online about all the shit that was going wrong. But then I remembered when you are young you feel angry, when you are old, you do not care. When you are young you want to shoot a bunch of people and then yourself. But then when you are old, you remember a gun costs money and there is rent to be paid. Basically, you give up on being angsty.Instead I just let the feud die. No use fighting with a kid. Plus at least he was still spunky enough to be angsty.

Of course, as I was in this blah the inner-bully began kicking my ass. It told me my dreams didn't matter. That I was worthless. I might as well get some guy to knock me up, have kids, and drop the ambition I had because I wasn't getting any younger. I began to feel I wasted the last decade of my life, like a failure. Why do what I am supposed to do? That is when a case of the Fuck It's really kicked in. Fuck it all. Fuck every bit of it. Stay in bed, watch Murder She Wrote on Netflix, and never invite Angela Lansbury to a party.

My inner-bully always has the voice of my ex-fiance, the one who forced me to give up the puppets. When it doesn't have that voice, it has the voice of my second grade teacher. Looking back, I think she had borderline personality disorder, and was a sick woman not evil. But she made it her business to bully me, and when she would yell at me, because I would tune off during math she would scream. I would become so terrified I would hide from her in the bathroom. Then she would bribe me with a sticker so I wouldn't tell my mother because this is what adult abusers do. Needless to say, when I began vomiting on the regular and had "frequent" health problems that would keep me out of school my mother grew suspicious. After seeing crazy in action and threatening to sue the school, I switched classes. Still, the bitch made me feel doomed to die alone in a government funded SRO with six cats, welfare, and no future. FUCK HER!

Monday came and I felt angsty myself. I figured shit must be catching. So I called a friend and bitched my head off. She said, "What are you going to do about it?"

I thought....What would Chacho do if he were here? Yes, my dearly departed friend who was the gay version of me. The one who wore Louis Vuitton despite being homeless and carried a Gucci bag. Sure he could have cashed those clothes in and gotten a room. Alas, they were his only worldly possessions. For some reason, Chacho had been on my mind as of late. You see, the anniversary of his death is in October. His birthday was in February. Who knows? Perhaps his spirit was around me for some odd reason. Maybe it was because despite the fact he was always in some sort of trouble, I always got a kick out of him. Whether he was lying to his case worker, misusing his benefit money for black market plastic surgery, or picking up some stranger for sex in a public restroom he would tell me all about it. In his own way, maybe he lied to everyone else but Chacho was always honest with me.

And I don't like to say he broke the law by selling drugs and occasionally stealing, he only obeyed the ones he liked.

Chacho's immortal words echoed through my mind, "Stop looking so broke and poor when you come to see me. Or else I will have to give you my change." And with that, he threw a few pennies at me. For the record, pennies are hard when they are hurled at you. Yes, in case you are wondering this was when he was hospitalized after a botox and tummy tuck gone wrong from his shady plastic surgeon.

That is when I got into the shower. Then I dried my hair. After which I threw on a dress and put on some makeup. Even if I felt like shit I was going to rock this shit out like a mutherfucker. It's what my dead friend's spirit would have wanted. Hell, it's the ball child theme song. It's Paris is Burning. So what we are homeless, our families disown us, and we have to steal to eat? We are still rocking Chanel, bitch.

I then remembered the song from Hedwig, "I put on some makeup...." Yes, after poor Hedwig is thrown out by her soldier boyfriend. I cannot remember if this was before or after the botched sex change. Immediately I felt better though. I didn't feel like a loser. Instead, I was just embracing where I was.

Sure, I was feeling some stress. I am approaching new frontiers with my writing, comedy, acting, puppeteering and all that happy stuff. I am working with a manager, which has been wonderful, although taking direction has been kind of scary after having been on my own for so long. I am trying to date again, which makes me feel like I have a horn in the middle of my forehead. But the thing is, I am experiencing change. I am taking the right steps. Instead of parking my ass in self-pity, I should just drive my car into acceptance and action. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want a writing career and to keep my followers hooked. Sure, I have things I need to do if I want to do comedy. Sure, a big cabaret venue wants me back again. I have to do shit. Not an elf. Me, I need to do it.

So I left my damn house and saw some friends of mine drinking coffee and smoking some cigarettes. I don't smoke, they do. Either way, we talked about the whole dating thing and laughed about it. Within seconds I felt better. Then I went on to get a snow cone, and went to the house of some other friends of mine. Of course the one had a dress for me. Then I discovered the dress, which another one of my friends had given to be was worn by the daughter of Geraldine Paige and was a Betsey Johnson. Shit, I delivered a singing telegram to Betsey Johnson.

Then like clockwork some of our gay boys arrived (Instead of Amen I will say Gaymen), and we talked about boys, boys, boys. And we laughed. And we gossiped. And we laughed and gossiped about who was on the in, the out, and which of my gay boys got laid. Wowa. As I laughed the malaise was lifted. I didn't feel so worthless. Fuck the ex-fiance and fuck the second grade teacher. Most of all, fuck my fucking inner-bully.

In spending the night with my friends, too, I got to realize sometimes when things get hard I make the mistake of shutting them out. That's why you have friends, to laugh. Yeah, my friends are all crazy. Most are creative and out of their minds. Some have worked or made gay porn movies. Others have dated fetish models. Some have done copious amounts of drugs, others have sold drugs. Some have tested the law and won, others tested the law and lost. Many have strong political opinions, some right and some left. Their love lives read like soap operas, and mostly we are all the cause of our own drama. Yet the world turns and the sands of the hour glass make the real life Days of Our Lives mixed with Seinfeld and Friends worth it.

Not to mention my buddies have always been there when times were rough, and the cards were done. They loved me at the times I was successful, at times I wasn't, and at times when I was just in the middle. They also tell me like it is, and remind me not to take myself so seriously. Bottom line, maybe my friends are all nuts. And some people might judge them, or me for having them. Truth: They should be so lucky to have people as good and as loyal as them in their lives. End of story. Sure, at times I didn't have much I said I had my friends. To some that might seem like a cop out. However, if they knew my friends they would see that the love these people have given me during my dark days, and I have had many, cannot be measured in Earthly weight.

Today I also realized I had a lot of good people around me too. There is my female trainer friend who corrected my lifting technique. There is my mom, who takes the cake. There is the new manager I am working with who is guiding me, giving me direction, and opening doors for me that I couldn't open myself. There is my acting coach who is guiding my career, and helping me get my shit together in a way I never have had. And alas, there is my super Spooky Juice who has been away for a week building houses in Haiti. Yes, he abducted me briefly to shove his tongue down my throat. But he is thoughtful in his own, bizarre, spooky way hence the name.

Bottom line, sometimes when you are swimming in your own shit, the answer is not to continue swimming in shit. The answer is to leave your damn house. The world is not in your head or your room. The world is outside. Nothing is as good as you think it is. Nothing is as bad as you think it is. Throw your problems in the middle of the room, and then see what everyone else has. You will probably scramble to get yours back.

Hopefully my little angst ridden friend is feeling better today. Because when you put on some makeup, it doesn't just get better, it gets a lot better.

Chacho, maybe you were crazy but you knew a thing or two in between your drug filled sex benders. Thank you for sending your spirit to put me in the right frame of mind. And thank you to all my spirited friends living in helping with the effort.

My Own Bully

Every performer has the side of them the world sees when they step on the stage. Then they also have the dark side. Yes, we beat ourselves up. Many are called, few are chosen. We all want to be the prettiest, the brightest, and the best. There are only so many spots at the top. We all want them. So we bust our asses, show up for ourselves, and then more often than not beat ourselves with the metaphorical crow bar. This is why so many careers are destroyed by drugs, alcohol, and generalized nuttiness. It's not because the person just has issues, they want to quiet that voice that reminds them that there is always someone funnier, prettier, and better for the spot. Translated, we all have our own bully.

I was nineteen when I started performing in the city, and twenty when I took it seriously. My days were spent in class, and my nights were spent doing either multiple open mics or comedy spots. When I did well it was a stroke to my ego. So many people from my hometown, family members included, told me to throw in the towel. According to them I would never make it in show business. Some insisted I hadn't been born into it, and started too late because you have to be rockin out of the cradle. Others said I had no talent. So every time I killed I deterred my haters. I also felt closer to the goal of being on TV, something that seemed out of reach in those days. I also felt closer to the greater goal of being a good comedian.

When I tanked that was a different story. I ate asphalt sometimes because I was green, but also because of the nature of my act. I was also quite young and was trying to find my voice onstage let alone in real life. Navigating the world of adulthood and standup proved to be a challenge. When I died onstage I always felt that maybe the people back home were right. I was making a wrong decision. I would never make it. I was wasting my parents money going to NYU. The voices always grew stronger. Of course then there was the ever gnawing doubt that ate me alive continually.

At first I was rational. I just had to keep getting stage time, learning and growing. I am the product of two educators. I believe in process and craft. Deep down I know you need to fall before you can walk. However, a mentor of mine in college said, "You know what your problem is, you want what you want and you want it now." Oh God she was right. As I became more entrenched into standup, I really became invested in being good. That is when I traded in the rational and loving feather for the crow bar and baseball bat to beat myself with. Translated, I began feeding my inner bully.

In the beginning, I went over a bad set in my head until I got dizzy. Then I asked those around me for input, secretly hoping they would act as my protective parents giving me the bullshit line that it was just the crowd. Sometimes they did, and sometimes I got feedback I could use. Soon that stopped. I started leaving after bad sets. Usually it would be to some establishment that sold food that was horrible for me let alone any living, breathing person. I would stuff my face and put myself at risk for Type 2 Diabetes. Other times I would drink until I fell down. Sometimes someone would put me in a cab. Other times they would carry me out of the establishment threatening never to have me back again. Soon, this became the norm after bad sets. Instead of taking what I needed and leaving the rest, I was giving my inner bully what it wanted and was stunting myself.

I remember at the time I had a friend named Barry Lawrence who by all means should be a big star. He was always armed and dangerous with a hug after a bad set. We became friends because during a laugh off he beat me coming in first, me second. I lost fair and square. Anyway, once after tanking badly he was ready with a hug and helpful words. I still remember how the light of reason touched me and my inner bully recoiled. It also educated me to the importance of friends in this process, friends who would tell you the truth and support you either way. Friends who understood. Unfortunately, Barry too was feeding his inner bully. When he drank his Mr. Hyde came out and he ultimately destroyed a very promising comedy career. I always thought he shepherded me like a big brother because he had two baby sisters. But looking back, I think he saw a lot of himself in me. He knew full well I was probably on my way to feed my inner bully and he was correct. I know in my heart he didn't like being beaten up by this force within, and knew how painful it was, especially when it was winning.

I wish I could say it helped, but it didn't. Soon I came to depend on alcohol and bad food completely, before and after sets to shut the inner bully up before it even started. I found myself in trouble because I was drinking too much. I lost time because I was hung over. I did every terrible thing you could imagine to control my weight. My inner bully was quick to remind me someone was always thinner, prettier, funnier, and whatever. While we are all we have, my inner bully always was there to inform me I wasn't enough. Suddenly my drinking was getting me in trouble. I was sick because I was abusing food. Comedy also ceased to be fun. My sets were hit and miss. It's not because I lacked talent. It was because I was so hard on myself that it became more of a chore.

Around the time my inner bully was dragging me down to a rock bottom where I was being kicked by this evil force, I did a feature gig. My headliner, Pat O'Donnell, was one of the most wonderful people I have worked for to date. After being killed in front of a rough Jersey crowd, Pat took the stage and killed it. I remember how he was happy, glowing. On the other hand, I looked and felt beat. I remember Pat was funny and it was effortless. How was he doing this? Afterwards we talked. Pat told me his secret was he had fun when he got onstage. For me, comedy had became such serious business that beating myself up became the rule, not the exception. I had been so busy working myself like a slave I forgot how much fun it was making people laugh.

Soon after I did a show at what was once Joe Franklins. At the time, I was regimented and married to my set list. My inner bully told me my job was to do my jokes and be solid. I was studying my set when Maddog Mattern, who was emceeing, took it and ripped it up. He told me to go up and riff, have fun, that it was going to be okay. I was surprised. Could I do it? Sure enough, for as scary as it was, I did it. I was always thankful for that act of comedic love. For several more months I struggled until the inner bully began to drag me down completely. I had to make a choice, continue to feed the dark side or say goodbye. I chose to say goodbye.

I stopped drinking, joined a gym, and memorized the serenity prayer. While the inner bully still existed, it wasn't as strong. I enjoyed performing again. I hosted mics and shows wherever they would let me. Every weekend was spent traveling to make others laugh. I felt free onstage. I thought my fight was over. During this period I featured, headlined, got on TV, and wrote what was the first draft of my book. I also got a job as a talking head on an internet station. More and more, I began to take notes without judgement and looked at my job a fun gift instead of a dreaded chore. But as I said it still existed. Now it took a new form.

With some success I saw snarky comments from others. Male headliners asserted that I had slept my way to certain jobs. Women ripped on me for being "lippy." So called friends from back in the day stopped speaking to me or dissed me online. In turn I isolated myself and performed at less mics. Now I was letting my inner bully be the boss in a whole new way. I basically stopped eating, walked everywhere, and began dropping the ball in my life in a whole new way. I screwed up with money because I wasn't focused and was sad. When I went to places I was snappy because I was tired. To boot my inner bully insisted I had to be perfect and couldn't be seen trying new things. So it was back and more evil than ever.

That is when I hit one mic in Queens where I didn't know anyone. The comics there loved comedy. One dude came up afterwards and gave me the ending to a joke I was struggling on. For the first time in forever it felt okay. I felt strong, not letting the inner bully win. A few days later, I spoke to a veteran comedian who I look up to and poured my heart out. He told me the only way to deal with negativity is to tune it out. And he told me that the best part about the gig he did, and he typed this is caps, was he HAD FUN. That is when it hit me, I had to kill this inner bully and quick. I didn't need haters. I had myself to thwart my own plans.

While I got sidetracked with my book and such, I am now grudgingly returning to mics. It's because I need a network friendly set for an opportunity that has come my way. At first I felt like slitting my wrists. I have been on TV. I don't do such things, right? Then the same old character defects came out. I wasn't funny. I would never get where I needed to go. No one wanted to watch me. Fuck these people. Saturday when things didn't go my way I had a complete meltdown. The bully was back and bigger than ever. Translated: I was face to face with the same told demons.

I found myself being comforted by comedy friends, old and new. They reminded me that even pros still did batting practice. Also, they told me I was there to run a set and not to worry about the judgement. While they reminded me it was going to get worse before it got better, it was worth it.

Last night I did a set where the show was strong. There was not one weak link. When I left the stage I thought this could be stronger, that could be stronger, ended weak. I was back to beating myself up again. However afterwards people told me I did well. Everyone on the show was good, and that makes a difference. My inner bully wants to tell me I will never be worthy of the company of quality comedians. On the other hand, I know that's not true because I am in the company of quality comedians. I also know it's okay to evaluate myself, and that is different than beating myself up. Audience members told me I did well. The old friend who came liked my set. The producer liked me. Calm down killa.

Ironically several weeks ago I told some high school students to be kind to themselves when they wrote, advice I wish someone would have given me as a young woman. Advice I should probably take myself. Yes, there will be plenty of skinning my face as May Wilson and I get this set ready. The secret though is to keep growing, training, and getting stronger. It's not to succumb to that voice that tells you to turn around and punch yourself in the face. The  line it feeds you is that it makes you a better comic. No, that's bullshit. It only stunts you and holds you back.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com