When I'm low on Pluck

Those Annoying Little Lessons When Things Get Hard

Last night I cried for hours.

I was already burnt out and tired from all this screaming into a well. It’s hard to feel like you’re working endlessly and getting nothing back.

Jobs, pitches, grants. People asking for samples then ghosting on each follow-up.

I know this is the biz. I know nothing is personal. It doesn’t make it fun. Or easy.

I thrive in structure, but building it for myself has always been hard. And yesterday, the lack of direction was overwhelming.

I’d spent hours revising a new draft of one of my Poodle Lagoon picture book manuscripts. But no matter what I did, the message, the awe, the wonderment that are vital to the story just refused to land. It was very rude.

While I’m being vulnerable, here are the drawings I sent to Jen to show how I pictured the poodles.

Most days, I can brush off a snag; I take pride in my ability to do so. But this day the snag proceeded to unravel me. My mind swirled.

Was my problem writing in prose?

Was it the story itself?

Was it me?

AAAAAND that level of insecurity and dread mean it’s time to do something else. Maybe check on the grant I’d applied for.

Honestly, I needed the positive vibes just as much as I needed the money. It would mean someone else saw merit in what I’m making.

The winnings wouldn’t be huge, a couple thousand dollars. I planned to use them to build a Poodle Lagoon deck and website to send donors and apply for other grants.

The foundation offering the grant was the same one that manages my fiscal sponsorship. So I had that going for me. I knew they liked me and my project. I mean, the moment I met the women who ran it, they were over the moon with enthusiasm.

Whenever I asked for advice on my donor letter, copy, or art, they just waved me off. It was all perfect, they said. I was doing great, they said.

That’s the sort of external validation you crave when you’re out of work. Or at least I do. Someone to tell me, “You’re doing it right, just keep going.”

That’s why I picked them, they thought my project was really something special.

What really sold me though was that they insisted I didn’t need to know anything about fundraising. They told me they’d teach me everything I needed to know. They’d helped with plenty of projects like mine. This was a great match, they insisted.

So even though their application was expensive, and they take a higher percentage of my earnings than other fiscal sponsors, I knew it was a good decision.

Then came the last meeting…

My fiscal sponsorship included free advice calls. So I arrived overflowing with fundraising questions. But to my surprise, each one got the same response: “You should take our intential filmmaking class!” “Oh yeah. We cover that in the class.” “You’re the perfect candidate. It’ll take your fundraising to the next level. It’ll show you’re serious about raising this money, you are serious… aren’t you?”

I asked the price. “Special, just for you, it’ll only be $800.”

My stomach dropped.

I told her no. I mean, if I had $800 lying around I’d use it to hire someone to make my deck. She insisted I didn’t need that, that my “art” (the photos I pasted into a Google Doc) was perfect. What I needed was this class. Or another class or service they offered for the low low special price of $WAY MORE THAN I HAVE.

She added, “If you take this class, the instructor can help you get into the animation community in Burbank.”

I was confused. I explained that I’m already part in the animation community in Burbank. I’ve worked in it for years. Didn’t she already know that? I wrote about it pretty extensively in the materials that she said she’d read. The materials she said were great.

I told her as firmly as possible that I couldn’t afford the class, but she tried one more time.

“Fine, I don’t want to pressure you. But I’m telling you, if you get in with these instructors, they’ll help you. They could even get you in the room to pitch your show to Adult Swim.”

For context, my show is for preschoolers. Adult Swim airs super irreverent cartoons strictly for adults (hence the name).

I couldn’t tell if she didn’t know that, or didn’t know anything about my project. Either way, it was crystal clear: she hadn’t read my materials. She didn’t love my show or me. Her enthusiasm had all been a lead-up to a sales pitch. Love-bombing for desperate filmmakers. And it worked.

Thank God for Jen.

I just felt so… used.

I wasn’t angry. People have to make money, get it girl. I just felt stupid. I was so starved for somebody, anybody to give me a pat on the back, I slurped up her kind words with a big fat boba straw and asked for more.

And despite the bad taste that the entire foundation left in my mouth now, I still held out hope for the grant. Other people I knew got their rejection letters weeks ago, but not me. Sure, this one woman hadn’t read my stuff, but maybe the grant people did, maybe they’d make me feel special and seen and worth.

So after that bad writing day, I hopped onto the website in search of some good news. An emotional buoy in this open ocean.

I checked the website and saw they’d posted the finalist list.

Seventeen finalist names. Mine wasn’t there.

My first reaction was relief. Good. Now I can cut ties completely and find a new fiscal sponsor that fits me and my needs better. One with less snake oil energy.

Cutting ties was good.

So why did I burst into tears?

Why did my brain immediately leap to: They didn’t send a rejection because you don’t matter. They didn’t read your materials because they don’t believe in you. They only saw you as another creative sucker with a dream and a bank account.

Not: There will be other grants.

Not: This happens.

Just: You don’t matter.

I woke up this morning and realized it was just as likely they didn’t email because of some administrative reason. Or maybe I was close. Maybe anything. The point is I don’t know.

So why was I still so sad? Why was I being such a baby about this? Where was my thick skin? I know this isn’t personal. I know there will be plenty of grants, plenty of opportunities.

A professional wouldn’t care about this, I told myself. A real writer would shrug and move on. But not me, my tears flowed and flowed and flowed.

Just a few days ago daughter my daughter cried. But that’s different. You’re supposed to cry when you’re young. I told myself.

For context, she was upset because I wouldn’t let her watch Zootopia during dinner. And I was like dude, I get it. Who wouldn’t want to eat while listening to Jason Bateman’s dulcet tones? Racial allegory with talking animals, yes please. But I didn’t turn on the TV. I didn’t give in. I just held her close. I told her what no one told me when I was a kid: It’s okay to be sad. Because I want to make sure she understands that these feelings are real and important and valid.

Sad isn’t “bad” to her, and I want her to keep it that way for as long as possible. It’s actually a big part of my pitch for Poodle Lagoon, too bad the fiscal sponsor people never read it. It’s pretty smart.

I have no idea why I allow that in her and not in myself.

So I stopped the anger and mothered myself like I would her.

“You’re allowed to feel disappointed, regret, and anger.” I said to myself. “It doesn’t mean you’re giving up, it means you’re human.”

The tears flowed again, and I let them.

Then suddenly, a line popped into my head.

They don’t think we can do it.

You other writers out there can commiserate with the blissful moment when the missing line hits you out of nowhere. In the shower or as you lean over to pick up the dog poop.

They don’t think we can do it. That was the emotional missing piece of my Picture Book. The one that wasn’t hitting, the one that I was struggling with. The line that explained the characters’ feelings. Gave them something real to work against. Something to prove.

It was the key to everything, but I had to let my emotions take over in order to get there.

Lately, I’ve been regretting how journal-y these posts have become. I set out on Substack to post the “helpful information” I was learning. I even named this tab in my Google Doc “Picture Books 101.” I wanted a place to share the tangible lessons I was learning about creating something on my own.

But now, for the first time, I see that’s exactly what I’m doing. The lessons may be unexpected even to me.

But I guess that’s what lessons are.

So anybody out there who is reading, I hope it helps and you can do it.