(Disclaimer: The material that follows is bit more personal than my usual dreck, but that’s really why you’re here isn’t it? Anyway, rest assured I am most certainly not curled up in a fetal position in a corner somewhere… I’m fine, really, and thanks for asking!)
Way back in high school I read a fantastic novel called Sister Carrie, and was a bit surprised to hear in a classmate’s book report that its author had led a pretty miserable existence.
Now me, I’ve had a pretty damn good run, both personally and professionally. And yet it seems that personal drama has repeatedly reared its ugly head along with milestones in my career.
Consider that I apparently did my best, Dora-nominated work at The Second City while recovering from a bit of a broken heart. And just today I’ve been offered the director’s chair of their National Touring Company in the midst of my girlfriend of three years walking out on me.
Like I said, I’m not looking for pity here. Rather, I look to the long, not-so-proud lineage of brilliant comedians—and artists for that matter—who’ve ended up dead of a drug overdose in their underwear on some hotel bathroom floor. Not to suggest, of course, that I think of myself as the former or will end up like the latter!
Yet I wonder… Is there some inverse and perverse ratio between personal happiness and artistic success? Or am I just making a big deal out of a coincidence? Come on you showbiz-types, here’s your chance to dish!
