Alert: I Am Not Bob Dylan
Comparison is the thief of joy.
This weekend, I found myself — stupidly, inexplicably, self-destructively — comparing myself to Bob Dylan.
I know.
I’m watching that Dylan documentary and here are all these incredible songs, right? “Blowin’ In The Wind,” for example. Indelible music. Once-in-a-lifetime classic songs. And there’s an interview with Steve Allen. And at the time of this interview, Dylan is already being heralded as the voice of his generation, his songs are the anthems of the various movements, etc. etc. etc. And Steve Allen, square and old, asks him how long he’s been writing songs, and Dylan goes, “Two years.”
Two years.
And meanwhile here I am, little darling cornfed Megan Gogerty, toiling over my eleventy-hundreth play and hating it, of course, it’s terrible, all first drafts are embarrassing — and. Well. Bob Dylan hurt my feelings.
Two fucking years.
And I know! I know. This is a stupid game I’m playing. I could never write “Blowin’ In The Wind,” for the very excellent reason that I am not Bob Dylan. I will never be, in a thousand years, Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan in 2021 couldn’t write “Blowin’ In The Wind.” He’s stuck writing 2021 songs, probably about death or remorse or whatever he’s feeling. I don’t know, I haven’t tuned in lately.
But you know what makes this game really stupid? I’m not even trying to be Bob Dylan! I’m not writing folk songs. I don’t even write poetry. I’m allergic to poetry. I have several (okay, a couple) poet friends who are brilliant and I admire them, but when I try and write poetry, I read what I wrote and ask myself, “Is this poetry? Or am I blowing bubbles up my own ass?” It’s invariably the second one. It’s just not in me. (Although that “bubbles” line is pretty poetical, I admit.)
It’s not even about Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan is just a handy club with which to beat myself. How dare I write.
This is my process. I wish I had a gentler, kinder process, but here we are. I write a first draft, which is an act of heroism, frankly. Then I reel at how sparse and how inert the thing is, and I plow through about four more drafts. Then I hit a wall: I don’t fucking know what this is. Why am I writing it? What is the point of anything? How on earth does anyone write anything, ever?
That’s when I give it to someone. A friend who is also a theatre artist, usually Saffron, my longtime director and collaborator. And Saffron reads it and asks me the same questions she always asks me (“Why are you telling us this story? What do you want from us?” Ugggh, I don’t fucking know), and I get frustrated and say something like “Ugggh, I don’t fucking know” and we have a big talk and usually something chips off, and I get a grip on something, not an answer, not remotely an answer, those are blowing in the wind as you’ll recall, but maybe a thread to tug on. An area to explore. Something. And this goes on for at least five more drafts.
And then somewhere in the teens — maybe draft 12 or so — lord willing and the creek don’t rise — I crack it. I figure out what the hell this thing is. And then it’s about writing that play, and not something else. And along the way I have readings and workshops and get notes from people, at first eagerly (please somebody tell me how to fix it), then reluctantly (please tell me how you’ve misunderstood me yet again) and finally, when I no longer care to listen to people tell me the things they don’t like about it because they’re all obviously wrong and I am a genius, the play is ready for the rehearsal room.
At which point I, the actor, realize the writer is a pompous ass.
And there’s too many words, and she repeats herself all the time, and frankly, wouldn’t it be more efficient if I just said this? Yes, it would. Make notes in the margins. Tell the writer.
And rehearsal is so boring, you understand? There’s nothing more tedious than rehearsing a one-person show. There’s nobody to play with except the director, and she’s getting a little sick of watching me not take the notes she gave me earlier.
But then we open, and that’s when the art happens. All this other stuff is planning. Party planning. But now, the audience is here, so the party is here. And we run them through the maze. And I know exactly what I want from them, and they give it willingly, laughingly, and we all transform each other.
So, no: not Bob Dylan.
On the flip side, I’ve never been an asshole to Joan Baez. So I’ve got that going for me.
But here’s what I want to know: who are you comparing yourself with, stupidly and self-destructively? Who is the absolutely ridiculous person that you are torturing yourself with? Who are you trying to measure up to, which you can’t possibly, not because they’re so great and you’re so lousy, but because you’re not in fact Hank Aaron or Buddy Holly or Frieda Kahlo and you don’t even want to be them, you’re doing your own thing? In your heart of hearts, you know you don’t want to be them, you just are dazzled by their foreign, inscrutable genius?
Tell me, and we will laugh together at how silly it all is, and how we torture ourselves in the stupidest ways for no reason at all, and aren’t you wonderful? And we’ll remind each other how impossible it is to make art at all, and how brave and lucky we are to even be doing this. And we’ll remind ourselves that, to an artist, process is all. And we’ll try to love the process, love the dumb, hard struggle. How impossible it is to connect with another person, and how miraculous, and how it’s the only thing that matters. How it feeds us and nourishes us. And how ultimately, that’s all we’re all out here trying to do — reaching out through the gray mists, looking for the one who knows us, trying not to be so lonely anymore. And when it works, when we find that connection, when we say the truth in our hearts and are recognized — no matter how small the audience, how regional the theatre, how ineffable the instant — we remember that moment for the rest of our lives.
Because ultimately, we’re all just blowing in the wind. Or something.
Also, the song “Just Like A Woman” is trash. Why don’t you reflect on your weird misogyny, Bob? (What’s that? You don’t want my notes? Fair enough.)
