The funny thing is, it’s probably the best time to be an actor. The advent of the digital age has resulted in all kinds of conveniences: self submissions, self tape auditions, online classes, uploaded materials instead of mailed copies, etc. More things are being filmed than ever, and with the affordability/availability of equipment, there’s also more ability to film original content.
And yet, the actors I know are all stressed out of their minds. They’re struggling. The population of working actors does not seem to have increased.
Dating apps come to mind. In the same way that technology has aided actors, it should also be easier than ever to find a romantic partner. Get on the app, swipe, match, and make it happen. You can do it from the comfort of your toilet. And yet, just like with acting, it doesn’t feel like things are easier. If anything, it feels like there’s a disconnect between reality and expectations. Increased availability means more opportunities, but it also means choice paralysis, fatigue, and the constant pressure to do more.
In LA, there’s a real point of tension around terminology. It’s very common for advice givers to say that in order to be an actor, you must call yourself one. If you act, then you are an actor. This runs parallel to the pervading belief in law of attraction, also known as manifestation. What you put out into the universe is what you get back.
The problem is, that philosophy is ripe for cognitive dissonance. Most people in Los Angeles calling themselves actors are aspiring to reach that status. They’re an actor on a casting site, on Instagram, on Tik Tok, on a personal website, but on their tax returns, the story is quite different. Most actors are part time or in name only.
I moved to LA at the beginning of twenty-three, fresh out of college, to try and be an actor with a capital A. My trajectory seemed to follow that of so many other aspiring actors that I met. I moved with a smattering of materials from my time in university: a resume full of plays and short films, some very unimpressive clips of me acting, and a collection of headshots. After landing, I made profiles on Actors Access and LA Casting, two of the biggest sites for actors to self-submit. For the first three years, I submitted and auditioned for basically any project for which I fit the role description. Since I moved without a car, this meant trekking all over the city by metro and bus. I acted in student films, indie shorts, an independent feature film, music videos, background roles, Internet commercials, and even some reality TV. I was paid sporadically. My record for a day rate was $175. At the end of twenty-four, I found a commercial agent. She wanted to upgrade me into a theatrical client (able to audition for film/TV) once I compiled better reels. This added more legitimacy to the declaration of “I’m an actor.” The trajectory seemed clearer. I just had to stay the course. Soon I would book enough commercials to quit my day job. After that, I would start with small roles in film and TV, and after that progress to larger parts. I would join the union. I would become that rarest of unicorns: an actor without a day job.
But at twenty-five, I burnt out.
It seemed to culminate in the winter, a few months into my quarter life crisis. I made it to the final round of a Prada commercial, didn’t book, and the rejections of two and a half years caught up to me. I was on my third job, and my second one at a restaurant. These two restaurant jobs were not even the traditional serving variety where you could put away a lot in tips. These were fast casual eateries, a pizza place and an ice cream shop, where the tips were pooled and meager.
I was tired. Two and a half years is both a long and short amount of time, depending on how you look at it. But the quarter century mark was staring me down and I didn’t know what I had to show for it. Whenever someone asked me “What can I see you in?” the answer amounted to obscure videos on Youtube. In terms of income, I still had a record of $175 for a day rate, and around $500 for an entire project. I was tired of living below the poverty line. I was tired of sharing cramped accommodations with other transplants. A month after my birthday, I finally moved into a house where I could afford my own room, but that was after two years of sharing close quarters, of sleeping in bunk beds or a mattress on the floor. I was tired of bussing all over the city for auditions and shoots. I was tired of frantically checking my email for submissions and auditions. I was tired of working nights, of getting home bone weary in the AM hours. I was tired of sucking up to random filmmakers and casting directors for work that often wasn’t paid. I was tired of worrying all the time about what my agent thought of me. I was tired of fearing that I had fallen behind.
I was so tired.
I didn’t quit, though. I limped on. In many ways, I’m still limping. I submitted myself to paid projects for a bit, and then I stopped submitting together. I only went out when my agent sent me. That happened less and less as I failed to book and as I continued to put off paying for acting classes and new headshots.
At age twenty-six, I finally got the chance to do what I had fantasized about since high school. I got to film my own scripts. These videos were just short comedy sketches with a nonexistent budget, but they gave me a thrill like nothing else. This was also the first year since college during which I got to record my own music. I fed my creative hunger like that up through the present. This was also while finishing up a novel and several scripts. I told myself I would get a second wind for the actor’s life once more of the writing was done, particularly my book.
At age twenty-seven I vowed to get back into regular auditioning. I got new headshots at the urging of my agent. She told me that my profile wasn’t living up to my potential. She also wanted to know if I still wanted to upgrade theatrically. I didn’t, actually. I wanted to find a new agent for various reasons, so I bought time saying that I needed to finish my dramatic reel. After four years, I still only had a comedic reel. The dramatic clips that I had were subpar and several were embarrassing.
After the new headshots, I lost steam again. I didn’t self-submit anymore. My agent didn’t get me an audition for almost a year. I started another job at a restaurant, this time in fine dining. It was the best money I had made thus far, but the stress rose with the pay, and I was still so tired. My stomach clenched when I thought about auditioning again. It was taking all my stamina to keep up with the writing.
Covid happened and that gave me an excuse for almost a year to not get back into things, but I experimented with a return to self-submissions during the first shutdown. I preferred the limiting factor of quarantine. Casting directors could only ask for self-tapes. They had to be more communicative. And there were fewer things to submit for overall. Even so, I lost steam again around Christmas. I stopped self-submitting during the holidays and didn’t get back to it. I talked about getting new headshots, but then I kept using my changing look as an excuse. Like many people during quarantine, I experimented with facial hair, a fade haircut, and lightening spray.
But, I kept filming my own videos, including two music videos for original songs. I kept acting in friends’ projects. I had been telling people for a while that I felt like a writer with a capital W and an actor with a lowercase a. By age twenty-eight I had enough of a writing portfolio to submit both prose and scripts to contests and agents. I pondered making the shift official, dropping my agent and the pretense of being an Actor. I pondered leaving LA for the millionth time. I pondered a smaller market where I could keep up the pretense, but also avoid the pressure of living in the world’s largest hub of entertainment. Mostly, I kept limping along.
When you’re an aspiring actor inundated with advice, there’s always some X factor that you’re missing. If you just got more headshots, if you just took a class, if you just networked more, if you just got a new agent…Most of the advice requires spending money.
When I’m feeling particularly bitter and frustrated with myself for not doing more, for not completing X and thereby actually getting somewhere, I remind myself of a simple fact: I only know one person who has made it.
Some caveats: I define “my level” in several ways. Ditto for “making it”. In this case, I only know one person my age who came to LA in their twenties and is now on a TV show. I’ve met several working actors in their thirties, but they were on a different timeline from me.
In the case of this one successful acquaintance, she got on a TV show because her manager lied about her acting credits and then she nailed the audition. High risk, high reward. It worked out for her, but the approach is a great way to get blacklisted. You get one lie before people stop trusting you.
Most actors I know have checked off many of the boxes, more than me in terms of classes and credits, and they still seem to hover around the non-union level. They keep busy with projects that are relegated to Youtube and random film festivals. They work survival jobs. They film their own content and audition whenever they can. They could not put themselves as an actor on their tax returns.
I’ve had two older men try to “mentor me” during my time in LA. Both said they enjoyed helping young people starting out in the industry. Both, in reality, were trying to groom me for sexual advances, and both situations got very awkward.
But that’s a different essay.
One thing I found particularly intriguing was that both of them used the same question word for word as part of their strategy. They both asked me “What do you think is holding you back?”
The first time I was twenty-three and took the question to heart. The second time I was twenty-seven and a bit more jaded. I gave the pervert producer in question a simple answer: statistics. There’s too many people trying to be actors, and there aren’t enough well-paying jobs. He didn’t like that. It sounded like an excuse. His response was that I should try to emulate the greats, one of his favorites being Dean Martin. He didn’t specify what this emulation meant in practice, because the actual promise was to give me an in. As an “actual producer” (his words, not mine), he could introduce me to legitimate agents and get me parts on union sets. The only problem was, he was real creepy.
But like I said, that’s the subject of a different essay.
In the summer of 2021, I dropped my agent. I’d been thinking about it for a long time. The catalyst occured when I received an audition during a period that I was out of town, which I had relayed to my agent beforehand (this is referred to as “booking out” in the acting community). It was a commercial for sex toys aimed at male couples. I think it paid about $1,500. I was on the East Coast for the first time in three years. I came for a wedding and stayed a week longer to catch up with friends from college. I saw five people that I hadn’t seen in person since graduation. It was a ripe time for self-examination. I got the audition notice, read the description, scrutinized its convoluted instructions for the self-tape, and wondered what the hell I was doing with my life.
When I got back to LA, I pondered the decision for a week, and then finally sent a brief but polite email to my agent asking to withdraw, citing a change of priorities and a lack of availability to audition. My agent sent back a short but sweet message wishing me luck and telling me to take care of myself.
“Well,” she wrote. “It’s been a journey.”
I didn’t know how to read the tone of that. I hadn’t seen her in two years. I had never booked any of the projects she had submitted me for. With a correspondence of two brief emails, our partnership was over. Just like that. No fuss, no muss.
So what now? I quietly took her agency’s name off my Instagram, but I continue to post things that make it seem like I’m still an actor, as I’ve gotten footage back from various little shoots. I told myself that I would take last summer to focus on submissions, writing essays, filming some more original content (particularly a dramatic short film to flesh out my reel), take a class maybe, and then reevaluate in the fall. In the fall, armed with better footage and headshots, I could find a new agent. I could get back to it, but this time with a firmer foundation. But Fall came and I wasn’t ready. I was still so tired. Winter came and went too. Now it’s Spring.
I still think of moving to a smaller market. I still think of focusing fully on writing and getting a job with regular hours. I could treat acting as a hobby. Lots of people do.
There are so many success stories out there where the protagonist was just about to give up but instead gave it one more go, and then they became the person we all look up to today. I’d be interested to read the other stories, the ones where the people realized they were doing the wrong things, that they had been dreaming the wrong dreams, or at least, dreaming them the wrong way. I’ve read some anecdotes like that, but always as a prologue for a life shift into other success. What about all the normal people? The people who found a quiet life and liked it better? The people who failed and then just lived?
I’m sure the novelty of those stories would wear off quick. There are the stories of the people who get it all and then lose it, either by their own choice or happenstance. Those are popular. I’m not sure what you’d do with all the stories of people who will never know if they cut their losses at the right time, who don’t know if their big break was just around the corner. I see that mostly in novels to serve as backstory for bitter characters, the forever haunted type.
I suppose we all live with the uncertainty. Until we don’t. Then other people parse through our experiences, looking for the themes and arcs. In the meantime, you show up. Isn’t that why they say the majority of success is? You show up for another day, another audition, another interview, another date, another blank page, and another chapter of your own life. Like any actor, you show up and hope one day you’ll get the part you want.
But I’ve also learned that showing up is person-specific. We all have different approaches because we have different situations. For me, at least for right now, that means focusing on writing and filming when I can, especially if I get the chance to actualize one of my scripts. Showing up has also meant sitting through a lot of pep talks, nodding politely, and then promptly disregarding most of it.
Success is a black box. We don’t know why things take off while others don’t; we just make educated guesses afterwards. Every rule gets broken at some point, and it’s hard to make good art when you’re following the rules anyway. For me, showing up means to keep guessing, and to guess in ways that make me feel happy and fulfilled. That’s who I want to be as an artist: someone unafraid to admit that I don’t know the answers. During my time in LA, I don’t know if I’ve gotten closer to success, but I know that I’ve gotten closer to honesty, and that gives me hope more than anything else.