Sometimes You Have to Ask

There are weekends when I am a reasonably sensible human being, and then there are weekends when I somehow schedule five events in roughly thirty hours.

Between Friday evening at seven and Saturday night at ten, I performed, hosted, sold books, did stand-up, hauled things around, talked to a remarkable number of people, and generally tested the limits of how many different creative hats one person can wear before they all fall off.

At Livingston Parish Library’s BookCon, I sold eight books. Eight books is not exactly the sort of number that causes champagne corks to start flying through the room, but it was a free event; I met readers, talked about my work, and sent eight books home with people who did not have them before. I am perfectly happy to count that as a win.

Later, I competed in Gun Control at Boomerang Comedy Theater and somehow won by receiving the fewest Nerf bullets, which is a very strange sentence to be able to write about one’s creative career.

Somewhere in the middle of all that running around, though, I kept thinking about something we don't talk about nearly enough when we discuss creative careers: sometimes you have to ask.

We like the story where someone discovers us. A gallery calls, a publisher appears, someone spots us performing and offers us the next opportunity, or an invitation arrives in our inbox with a little bow tied around it.

Occasionally, that happens.

Most of the time, though, somebody asked.

I wanted to host the Something Else show on Friday, so I asked if I could host. I wanted to perform in She Boom, so I asked about being part of She Boom. Neither opportunity descended from the heavens accompanied by trumpets and a tasteful spotlight. I simply raised my hand and said I was interested.

That sounds incredibly simple, but asking can feel surprisingly vulnerable because there is always the possibility of hearing no. There is also that persistent little voice insisting that if someone really wanted you involved, surely they would have asked you already.

That voice is frequently wrong.

People are busy. Organizers are juggling a dozen things at once, and sometimes nobody knows you are interested until you tell them.

The same thing happens in the visual art world. Being a festival artist means constantly steering your own little ship. You apply for markets, find shows, submit work, send emails, fill out applications, load the car, set up the tent, make the signs, and talk to strangers about the strange little creatures hanging on your walls. Then you tear everything down and do it again somewhere else.

Indie publishing works much the same way.

There is no department somewhere arranging my appearances, sending my books to events, making promotional graphics, planning releases, contacting people, or deciding what comes next. There is just me, looking at the next possibility and thinking, “What if I tried this?”

And then, usually, making a spreadsheet.

I do not mean any of this as a complaint. In fact, there is something wonderfully liberating about being responsible for guiding your own creative career because it also means you are allowed to change direction when you want to.

You can follow what suddenly becomes interesting. You can try a comedy class at 53, start doing stand-up at 55, make peculiar little creatures nobody asked for, write the book that keeps tapping you on the shoulder, or decide that perhaps five events in thirty hours sounds perfectly reasonable.

You get to build the thing, but building it requires participation. You have to submit the work, introduce yourself, send the message, and sometimes ask directly for the opportunity you want.

Of course, sometimes the answer will be no.

Sometimes eight books will be the victory. Sometimes nothing sells, the room will be half empty, or you will wonder whether any of this is working.

Then, on another day, you sell another piece of art, someone tells you they loved your book, a room full of strangers laughs at something you wrote, or you win a comedy competition because, against all statistical probability, fewer people decided to shoot at you.

The creative life is rarely a straight road. Mine currently looks more like somebody dropped a bowl of spaghetti onto a map of Louisiana, but I think I am finally learning that opportunity is not always something that happens to you.

Sometimes opportunity is something you walk over to, tap gently on the shoulder, and ask, “Hey, can I do that?”

Then you see what happens.

Coming Up Next

Apparently, after five events in thirty hours, my response is to schedule more things.

Saturday, September 26, I’ll be back in New Orleans for the New Orleans Art Market in City Park, bringing the Unbelongings, books, and assorted peculiarities with me.

Saturday night, I’ll trade the art-market tent for a microphone and perform stand-up at She Boom.

Sunday, September 27, I’ll be at Bridging the Bars at Brickyard South.

Somewhere in there, I will presumably remember to eat something.

Probably.