it’s not even Friday the thirteenth,” Ariel deadpanned.
“Exactly. So rather than sitting upstairs and sulking, I thought I’d come down here and make chocolate mousse.”
“Seriously? You can just”—she waved her hands in the air like a wizard—“make that?”
I shrugged. “It’s usually not hard. Except today, when I can’t make anything get stiff.”
Ariel snickered.
I stared.
“You heard what you just said, right?” she asked.
I paused, realized, and the two of us dissolved into laughter, far more than my inadvertent innuendo deserved, red-faced, tears streaming from our eyes. When we had gotten ahold of ourselves, Ariel stood up. “Right. I’m staging an intervention. For the both of us.”
She poured two shots of whiskey, then handed one to me. “Here’s to the losers.”
“You too?” I asked.
“Me too.”
We clinked glasses and downed the shots.
“I haven’t ruined my clothing, but I’ve been writing like shit the past week or so myself,” Ariel said. “It pisses me off. Here I am in this amazing place, with this prestigious opportunity, and I can’t do a goddamned thing with it. And I’m sure that’s part of why I can’t write a decent song right now, because there’s suddenly all this pressure to be worthy, to live up to being chosen to be here, to not waste my time, but knowing that is one thing and actually being able to not give a fuck and write songs is another.”
“I thought it would be easier, being here,” I said. “Like, all the things I told myself were getting in the way before would be gone. The only thing left to worry about would be my writing. Instead, I’ve picked up a whole new bunch of things to worry about. Like, what if I’m not taking enough advantage of working with Beth? Maybe I should be working on a collaborative project while I’m here. Am I somehow doing residency entirely wrong?”
“What if I’m good, but being here proves that I’ll never be great?” Ariel said.
“And that’s the big one.” I pushed my glass to the side. “Good to know that insecurity keeps pace with ambition.”
“It’s weird, being here,” Ariel said, sliding our glasses around thetable like some version of a shell game that had our talent hiding beneath.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Good weird, but weird.”
“I mean, I was giving piano lessons and working as a barista back home so I could pay rent. Grabbing gigs when and where I could, and being grateful if I got enough box office to pay the gas money. Here, I check a box for whether I want my dinner to be organic microgreens or a nice salmon risotto,” Ariel said. “And I’m sure as fuck not complaining about that, but you know, I always told myself that if I could just succeed enough not to have to worry about whether I was going to be able to pay my bills each month, then I’d have the space in my head to stop hustling and really make something. Something great.”
“And here we are, the luckiest of the lucky, with our organic microgreens, and what if we’re still not good enough?” I said.
“Right. I have the space in my head, and instead of ideas, it’s full of doubt. Everything they tell us about being here is how this is a place where we are meant to just focus on our art, to create for ourselves without worrying about anything else, but I have never in my life felt more like everyone is watching me work, and it’s paralyzing.”
“Like we’re not making art for ourselves, but to represent Melete. All that tradition, everyone who came before us, and sometimes it’s wonderful—look who I belong with!—and sometimes it just feels like a longer list of people to let down.” I raised my empty glass, toasting Helena, who had just come in. She glared at us as she set the kettle on for tea.
“Also, I keep feeling like someone is literally watching me work,” Ariel said. “I mean, obviously, they’re not, because my studio has no windows, but I swear I feel eyes.”
“Me too!” I
“Exactly. So rather than sitting upstairs and sulking, I thought I’d come down here and make chocolate mousse.”
“Seriously? You can just”—she waved her hands in the air like a wizard—“make that?”
I shrugged. “It’s usually not hard. Except today, when I can’t make anything get stiff.”
Ariel snickered.
I stared.
“You heard what you just said, right?” she asked.
I paused, realized, and the two of us dissolved into laughter, far more than my inadvertent innuendo deserved, red-faced, tears streaming from our eyes. When we had gotten ahold of ourselves, Ariel stood up. “Right. I’m staging an intervention. For the both of us.”
She poured two shots of whiskey, then handed one to me. “Here’s to the losers.”
“You too?” I asked.
“Me too.”
We clinked glasses and downed the shots.
“I haven’t ruined my clothing, but I’ve been writing like shit the past week or so myself,” Ariel said. “It pisses me off. Here I am in this amazing place, with this prestigious opportunity, and I can’t do a goddamned thing with it. And I’m sure that’s part of why I can’t write a decent song right now, because there’s suddenly all this pressure to be worthy, to live up to being chosen to be here, to not waste my time, but knowing that is one thing and actually being able to not give a fuck and write songs is another.”
“I thought it would be easier, being here,” I said. “Like, all the things I told myself were getting in the way before would be gone. The only thing left to worry about would be my writing. Instead, I’ve picked up a whole new bunch of things to worry about. Like, what if I’m not taking enough advantage of working with Beth? Maybe I should be working on a collaborative project while I’m here. Am I somehow doing residency entirely wrong?”
“What if I’m good, but being here proves that I’ll never be great?” Ariel said.
“And that’s the big one.” I pushed my glass to the side. “Good to know that insecurity keeps pace with ambition.”
“It’s weird, being here,” Ariel said, sliding our glasses around thetable like some version of a shell game that had our talent hiding beneath.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Good weird, but weird.”
“I mean, I was giving piano lessons and working as a barista back home so I could pay rent. Grabbing gigs when and where I could, and being grateful if I got enough box office to pay the gas money. Here, I check a box for whether I want my dinner to be organic microgreens or a nice salmon risotto,” Ariel said. “And I’m sure as fuck not complaining about that, but you know, I always told myself that if I could just succeed enough not to have to worry about whether I was going to be able to pay my bills each month, then I’d have the space in my head to stop hustling and really make something. Something great.”
“And here we are, the luckiest of the lucky, with our organic microgreens, and what if we’re still not good enough?” I said.
“Right. I have the space in my head, and instead of ideas, it’s full of doubt. Everything they tell us about being here is how this is a place where we are meant to just focus on our art, to create for ourselves without worrying about anything else, but I have never in my life felt more like everyone is watching me work, and it’s paralyzing.”
“Like we’re not making art for ourselves, but to represent Melete. All that tradition, everyone who came before us, and sometimes it’s wonderful—look who I belong with!—and sometimes it just feels like a longer list of people to let down.” I raised my empty glass, toasting Helena, who had just come in. She glared at us as she set the kettle on for tea.
“Also, I keep feeling like someone is literally watching me work,” Ariel said. “I mean, obviously, they’re not, because my studio has no windows, but I swear I feel eyes.”
“Me too!” I
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