There’s a self-indulgent nature to blogging — an assumption that if I write something, someone will want to read it. Or, worse yet, I think there’s a perception that bloggers are somehow egomaniacs who need to share their private-most thoughts in a public forum. 

So, label it (or me) what you will, I am going to plan on sharing more in the coming weeks and months. Let’s see how it goes.

[End of prologue.] 

I’ve been a little blue lately. 

Things aren’t quite lining up the way I’d like them to — finances, acting jobs, etc. Frankly, it happens about once a year, but this year it struck earlier than usual and hit me a little harder. I think it’s a trap of this career I’ve chosen to pursue. Being an actor (or anyone in the arts) means that your career is forever at the whim of others. People talk all the time about “rejection,” but I’ve never felt rejected in my life. What I have felt is unworthy or undeserving. 

And that’s a lot worse than being turned down (“rejected”) for a gig. 

So I’m working on that stuff. Therapy. Yoga. Affirmations. (That’s right — “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…”) Then last night, my sister Tracy sent me a poem written by my niece Emily. Who is 12. TWELVE. I thought I’d share it. 

The Shatterer

As I blitz fast and free
I feel emotion over me, 
and I bound.
As if to the rhythm of a beating drum,
laughter shatters sky,
formerly deep and glum,
a sky of sorrow shatters.

Avoid no water,
shatter silver,
let joy overcome you through 
shattered silver.

Never lose hope to fierce wind,
Run forward and shatter air.
Fight the wind and
shatter air.

When darkness takes you prisoner,
blitz right on and
shatter darkness,
out-blitz dusk,
and shatter darkness.

I mean, c’mon.

Let me just repeat: “When darkness takes you prisoner, blitz right on and shatter darkness.” 

Thanks Emmy. I’m blitzing. 

I didn’t realize my mistake until I’d landed and been told that there was no shuttle and that a taxi was $150. For an instant, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, then I laughed at my own poor planning, got a rental car and a map and drove the 70 miles South to Miami.

I could’ve had a meltdown. I could’ve beat myself up. But, ultimately, those things would’ve hurt me — no one else. And, just like Dad, I didn’t get angry. I didn’t curse or cry or lose my senses. It’s in these moments that I realize I am my father’s son.
On the surface, we aren’t that much alike. I am a performer (and a singer at that). I live far away from home. But with every passing year, I realize how much more like Dad I am.

When my reaction to a crisis is to laugh instead of cry. When my choice of ministry is to do what’s right instead of preach about it. When my response to unemployment is to dig in and — as Dad says — “never put down my tools.”

I remember once, as a kid, riding into town with Dad (I usually tagged along on his Saturday errands, which generally included a stop at an office supply store for me), and he was remembering his father: “I know he was human,” he said, “and therefore imperfect. But if he had a flaw, I couldn’t tell you what it was.”

I know just how he feels.

I know that the life I have chosen for myself is not what either of my parents envisioned, but what a testament to both of them that I have the freedom to live it, without ever feeling guilty or inadequate or like I am somehow letting them down.
I am so grateful.
— James Benton Donegan
July 17, 2010

Why so difficult?

I think it’s because it’s impossible to look at ourselves objectively. To step back and decide what to say about ourselves. I also loved my last site. It was like a little square postage stamp with bright colors and some cute little icons, but it wasn’t right. At least not any more. It was the website of someone who was trying too hard. Someone who was overcomplicating things.

I don’t think that’s who I am, and it’s certainly not who I want to be.

So I took my own advice and simplified. What did I have to say, and how simple could I make it? I remember in ad school, my writing partner would always say (almost as a mantra): “What can we take away?” In a print advertisement, there are five basic elements: headline, visual, body copy, logo, tagline. But every ad doesn’t need all of those things. The goal, in fact, is to remove as many as possible without damaging the story you’re trying to tell. A Powerade ad doesn’t need body copy. Some Apple ads don’t even have a logo (relying on the small apple on the computer to do the job). Periodically, you even see an ad without an visual: just a line of type set in the center of a white page.

And that’s what I’ve tried to do here. I’m proud it’s so simple and humbled that such simplicity is so difficult.

As always, it's very simple:

1. Choose fresh, simple ingredients -- no more than five (say: chicken breast, garlic, canned San Marzano tomatoes, basil, onion)
2. Cook the protein first (chicken) with a little salt and pepper. Set aside.
3. Cook the other ingredients second -- starting with the stuff that takes the longest to cook (in order: onion, garlic, tomatoes). Add salt and pepper.
4. Combine them.
5. Add herbs (basil).
6. Serve.

In my quest to make things even simpler:

1. Buy fresh food.
2. Add heat.
3. Serve.

You have to be an amazing chef to make frozen food good, or to make dishes with dozens of ingredients. That's hard. Every now and then, I give it a shot, but it seems like the payoff is rarely worth the effort.

This was all driven home in last season's Top Chef. I'm a huge fan, but the people who make overly-complicated dishes that used super-fancy techniques almost never win. They obviously are trained chefs with mad skills, but the judges' favorites are invariably the simple, clean dishes that use follow my simple rules.

Delicious.

But he did, and he did it by thinking small. By speaking to individuals. He raised record amounts of money, not by attracting a few insanely rich CEOs (although Oprah probably kicked in her share), but by reaching out for $5 here and $100 there.

He used the wash-rinse-and-repeat of: "Get one more vote. Get one more dollar. Repeat." 

And he got so many single votes — and single dollars — that he drew record crowds at the polls and record funds at the bank. 

One of the wisest people I've ever met is a professional dresser at Theatre Under the Stars in Houston, Texas. When I did Miss Saigon there a number of years ago, she was assigned the unenviable task of taking care of a dressing room of four ensemble men. Primarily, the white guys play GIs, but we have a surprising number of costumes, all of which she took care of. 

The four tallest GIs were also chosen to be four Uncles-Sam in “The American Dream” sequence. I was the fourth tallest. This gave me an additional very quick costume change that put me in an utter panic at dress rehearsal. 

Our dresser smiled and said, in a thick Texas drawl, “Baby, the only way to do somethin’ fast is to do it slow.”

That inspired me then and continues to now. And I imagine that, if he doesn’t read this blog, President-Elect Obama heard something similar along the way... only he paraphrased:

The only way to do something big is to do something small. 

I am a do-er. A man of action. And so are you (or ... person), or you wouldn't be interested in this blog or the book it promises.

How to find balance? I don't know. That's right. No idea. 

Every week, I do eight shows a week of a great Off Broadway musical, teach about eight or ten voice students how to be better singers, design a website or two and try to cultivate at least one new client. 

I'm not complaining. I love my life, both the personal half and the professional one. But it doesn't leave much time for writing about all I do. In fact, I'm running late for something right now. 

Keep checkin' in, though. I promise I'll have something else inspiring very soon!

As an actor, I have a lot of friends in the arts who have said (I think in a smart ass way), "If it's so easy, then why am I not a star?" Or some variation on that theme.

For that matter, pointed out one reader, "why are YOU not a star?" 

Touche.

The answer -- like everything else in life -- is simple. Those readers are focusing on the "wash, rinse" part and completely overlooking the "repeat."

My philosophy boils down to this: nothing is complicated. But, if I had to add a sentence, I'd also say: "Nothing worth doing is easy."

It's that damned "repeat" part. I mean, c'mon. Here's a little parable from the world of theater — which I happen to know something about.

Meet Paul (not a real person). He moved to New York, determined to make it as an actor. He was to be a force on the Broadway stage before crossing over into starring roles on the silver screen. His plan was mapped.

Now, if I was to offer a Wash, Rinse & Repeat for theater, it would be: 
1. Show up.
2. Be great.

Paul is a smart guy, so he reads this blog and, armed with that knowledge, goes to an audition. Let's say it's an open call for a new Broadway musical of the movie Forrest Gump. (As far as I know, no such musical is in development, but if it is, I'd like to be seen for Forrest.)

What started as a short, funny "be good at everything" book is becoming a still-short, still-funny, pretty deeply philosophical lifestyle. 

In the process of writing some sample chapters for my pitch, I am seeing more and more that everything is simple. There isn't a thing on earth that is really so complicated.

That doesn't mean everything is easy, mind you. Still, I can't think of anything anyone would want to do that isn't a matter of mastering a few basics and then slowly building on them.

I know what you're thinking: "I'm an accountant/lawyer/ballet dancer, and I spent years learning the intricacies of my field."

You did. That's true. But will you agree that the basics of solid accounting are addition and subtraction? And the basics of being a good lawyer are listening and responding? And every dancer I know still swears by the time he or she spends at the barre every single day.

The fundamentals.

Most of us try to do things the hard way first. We don't generally consider that for everything worth doing, there is a simple, step-by-step approach that will ultimately get us from point a to point b.

I will close by reminding you of the tortoise and the hare. Those old friends who raced each other one sunny day in ancient Greece.

Mr. Hare ran full out and, had he been willing (and able) to maintain that pace for a bit longer, he would certainly have won the race. The old Turtle, on the other hand, maintained a slow, steady pace. He did things simply: left foot, right foot. 

And he won. So will you.