Lately …
I’ve been getting more than a few e-mails from writers asking for a little advice, some guidance. For me, advice has always been a tricky thing. What might be helpful or useful to one person could be the very worst suggestion for another. For that reason, I don’t like the notion of advice giving. So I’ve decided to blog a bit about a handful of key moments that helped define my approach to writing in hopes that they may be useful as either models of possibility or cautionary tales on how not to proceed.
Years ago and in a most miraculous way,
I met the great acting teacher Sanford Meisner. It was a fortuitous encounter in that days earlier I had retired from acting (hardly retired because I’d had no real acting career to speak of — I had gone on only a handful of auditions after graduating from drama school.) But my chance meeting with Mr. Meisner happened in such an amazing way that it was surely a sign that I must study with him. (I will write about this once-in-a-lifetime day in a future blog.) Long story short I ended up going to the island of Bequia with fourteen other young actors and studying with that brilliant man for a month that summer and then in New York City for the next year.
During one of our first classes, , I was doing a simple repetition exercise with my scene partner when Mr. Meisner stopped us. He was in his eighties, he was nearly blind and wore thick glasses. The studio was brightly lit to help increase his visibility. He’d had throat cancer many years earlier so he had no vocal chords. He wore a mic on his shirt collar and spoke in a raspy, rattle of a voice. He was a man of few words but when he spoke, it carried such weight, for he was incredibly wise.
Sensing my desire to do good work, he said, “Peter, do you want to be a good actor?”
“Yes,” I said, “But what I really want to be is a good writer.”
“Fine,” he said. ”Do you want to be a good writer?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you want to learn how to love? Do you want to be an Artist of Life?”
“Yes,” I said. ”Yes, yes.”
“Twenty years,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Twenty years. Anything worth doing well will take you twenty years to learn.”
“Really?”
He nodded, smiling slightly. ”You may become successful, you may become rich, you may become famous, but you won’t be any good for twenty years.”
Before I could respond, he said, ”And, in your case, Peter — maybe twenty-one.”
All my life …
I had been in a hurry, eager to get ahead. Here was the great Sanford Meisner telling me that there were no shortcuts, that it would take time. Instead of frustrating me, I felt liberated. Something had lifted. Suddenly I didn’t have to rush. Yes, I would need to work hard, but nothing was going to happen overnight. It would be an up-and-down process. I could quit or I could try to enjoy the journey.
Twenty years. Or if you’re like me, maybe 21.