What I Did for Love

fear, failure, and other vulnerable things.

My mother’s favorite musical was A Chorus Line.

For the uninitiated, it follows seventeen hopefuls through an audition for the chorus of a Broadway show. One by one, they make their way down the line, sharing their hopes, dreams, fears, and vulnerabilities (affectingly enough to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1976, a rarity for a musical). At the end we see who gets cast and who is left pounding the pavement. But first, there is the penultimate number, “What I Did for Love.”

Kiss today goodbye
The sweetness and the sorrow
Wish me luck, the same to you
But I can’t regret
What I did for love…

The original cast recording was a mainstay in my mom’s car, serving as the soundtrack across multiple decades and life stages. Over the many (many) hours I heard this song, I wrote it off as being about romantic or familial love — the sacrifices we make for those we care about. (Hell, I performed in the damn show at summer stock when I was twenty-two, where I sang this song every night for a month, but still didn’t let it sink in.)

It would take me years to grasp that it’s about another kind of love. The kind that drives us to live in ways others might find questionable; to sacrifice what’s wise or comfortable or certain or socially acceptable; to put ourselves on the line; to keep going when it’s difficult or even painful. The kind of love that, from the outside, can make people scratch their heads in confusion as to why someone would choose such a thing, chase such a thing, face poor odds or public scrutiny in the presence of another available path.

The irony nearly makes me laugh: If my mom didn’t want me to be an artist — which she very much did not — driving all over the state of New Jersey blasting “What I Did for Love” was a pretty strange way to communicate it.

“Life is hard enough,” she would say. “Why would you choose to make it difficult?”

Cue the song.

The now iconic lineup.

*

I was thinking about this lately because I haven’t finished my novel.

It’s a familiar pattern. I make room in my schedule, because I want to hold space for this thing. Then I start to panic — about finances and timing and “progress,” whatever the hell that means — and go scrambling to find other work, until I am left with no time or brain space for (my own) writing. I have been engaged in this cycle for, oh, my entire adult life.

But here’s the truth:

As much as I’m frustrated by inaction, I am terrified of success. There. Maybe typing it will help.

I am afraid of pressure. Of attention. Of trolls and bad reviews and scrutiny. Of disappointment. Of people wanting things from me. Of complicating my life.

It is more comfortable here, where “love doesn’t pay the bills.” (My mom, again.) It’s not without its own stresses or pressures. Sometimes I come very close to throwing in the towel. But it’s what I chose, and what I was told to expect. It is comfortable in its difficulty.  

So, here I stay, riding the pendulum between ambition and self-sabotage.  

My internal monologue sounds a lot like The War of Art, spouting the sort of tough-love sentiments I adore when it comes to running but have a hard time digesting when applied to creative work. But this week, I had a thought. Maybe it’s not about breaking blocks or facing fears or overcoming Resistance. Maybe all this time I’ve been missing the greater why, the key to setting myself free.

Maybe it’s about love.

*

We are particular in the ways love is deemed a virtue or an act of foolishness. We applaud commitment and sacrifice in a Nike commercial or a career montage or an Academy Awards acceptance speech. We love when grit proves triumphant. But when it doesn’t, we write it off as delusion. We wonder why someone can’t just grow up or get a grip or come to terms with reality.

We take this view with others, and also with ourselves.

I’ve built up the novel as an obstacle, a necessary means to an end. Something to give me legitimacy, to shake things up. To save me. An oxygen tank with a word count — the ideal environment for creativity to flourish!

Forget the fact that making a living as an author is as rare as being a billionaire. Maybe, I think, the book would prove it all wrong. Just maybe, the book would make it all worth it. But it’s not up to a project to determine that. It’s up to me.

*

A Chorus Line is not a show about aspiring stars. It’s about backup dancers — overtrained, underpaid, essential to a production’s value. In the language of corporate America, the highly talented support staff. They may hear applause, but they’ll never see their name in marquee lights. They are there because of love, not glory.

It’s a feeling we can all relate to. Even if we’ll never have the opportunity to, say, dance behind Taylor Swift, we each have our own versions of this. Perhaps you’ve played a supporting role for a cause or a company or a family. And whether your efforts were met with applause or acknowledgment, you kept on going — and it kept you going, too.

It’s a pure sort of love that keeps us trucking, keeps us typing, keeps us trying. And it is worth remembering, particularly when we lose our way.

*

As I was writing this, a quote floated into my mind, unbidden: “There are no great things, only small things with great love.” Mother Teresa. I scribbled it on a Post-it and stuck it near my desk.

My mom wasn’t wrong, life can be hard. But it is love that makes it bearable — and beautiful. Whether it transpires under a spotlight or the blue glow of a laptop screen, what we do for love has its merits. It may not always pay the bills. But it feeds us in another way.

For now, I’ll stop focusing on great things. The montage moment can wait. I’ll take it one newsletter, one chapter, one sentence at a time. One conversation or email or message. Or song.  

Small things with great love.

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Baby me as Diana in A Chorus Line. (Only for you, paid subscribers, only for you.)

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Apparition Tarot by Mary Elizabeth Evans

After my mom died, amid the Greek chorus of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry” (acceptable, of course, because what are you going to say?) a person said something I found rather strange at the time.

“I can’t wait to see who you’ll become.”

Huh? I thought. Like grief isn’t enough to deal with, now I’m supposed to have some kind of metamorphosis?

Yes, actually. That’s part of the deal.

I’ve never been fond of that old aphorism “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It may sound like a spirited battle cry translated through the mouth of Kelly Clarkson, but the truth is that some things that do not kill you can really take it out of you.

Nothing makes you stronger via the simple act of transpiring. But I am willing to concede that what doesn’t kill you leaves you changed. What that looks like is up to you.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

The Hanged Man is in the process of becoming. This week’s card wishes to remind us that we are all — always — in the process of becoming the next version of ourselves.

Becoming can be major, but it can also be subtle. It can be private. It can be nuanced.

The Hanged One is often depicted upside down, suspended by one ankle. As such, they see life from a new, inverted perspective. The same sights look different than usual — brighter, darker, more absurd. They love to make the kinds of observations that inspire friends to ask, “Are you high right now?” (They’re not.)

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” says Lysander to Hermia, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This week’s card knows this is true — not only of true love, but of nearly every pursuit in life.

It’s encountering a delay or detour or unexpected hurdle.
It’s feeling stuck in a holding pattern.
It’s waiting for a text, an offer, an invitation.
It’s a pending decision that isn’t up to you.
It’s a surprise you wanted — or one you didn’t.

No matter how impatient we may feel, no matter how much we may want to take action, there are times when we have no choice but to surrender to the moment. As irritating and uncomfortable as this can be, it is an opportunity to learn more about ourselves. And if we allow it, an opportunity to learn more about the world around us.

This card urges us to assume a new vantage point, to observe our lives from a different point of view. It could come as the result of a sea change, but it can also be ushered in via subtle, everyday ways. It might mean taking a different route home. It could mean reading a memoir by an author with a different background or point-of-view. It may mean consulting a friend or trusted advisor, to provide an angle that you haven’t yet considered.

And just as often, it may mean waiting. Breathing. Listening for the call of our intuition as to what comes next.

No matter where we are, no matter where we wish to go, this week’s message recognizes that the path is not straight. The train does not always run on the express line. This is okay.

Progress can sometimes be sneaky. One day, everything feels stuck, mired in inertia, and the next, everything has changed — like when your phone decides to update to a new operating system while you’re asleep.

Everyone loves the symbolism of a butterfly, all fluttering wings and graceful flight. And sure, that’s magnificent. But this card tells us that the chrysalis is due for a rebrand. It’s not some sad, stagnant limbo — it’s where the growth happens, and magic, too — first within us, then beyond us. Where we find wholeness, again and again. Where we become the fullest version of ourselves.

It’s where we look in the mirror and proclaim, “I can’t wait to see who you’ll become.”