i am living in new york city. (that's a lie. i am living in prospect park, brooklyn.) i am living in new york. i got here nine months ago with two surcharged suitcases and a relationship in foreclosure. i am going to be an actor.

though i have accumulated $70,000 of post-collegiate debt, i am to be considered one of the lucky ones because for all due purposes, i live in new york, and i have a job that pays roughly $18/hr., and i don't sleep in a closet. my landlord is an eastern european gent who requests that i pay him in cash, and sometimes that i join him for vodka. i have three wonderful friends whom i travel through my days with, only one of which would i take a bullet for. my roommate's mother has taken me under her wing, a pattern in my life i am learning to adapt to. i date infrequently. i ride the q train for 33 minutes to go to work. i work. i ride the q train for 46 minutes to come home. i read a lot of plays. i watch every movie that billy crudup has ever made. i learn how to act. i do the same with mary-louise parker. i learn how to act. i am going to be an actor.

i ride the q train for 33 minutes to go to work. i work. and as i work, it occurs to me, much sharper than i would prefer, that i am not going to be an actor. i ride the q train for 46 minutes to come home, and each of those minutes are spent thinking of my friends and acquaintances from school that have achieved a semblance of accomplishment towards their artistic goals, and again, it occurs to me - a-ha! - none of them work. i make a pact with myself, as young fools do, that i will save as much money as possible in the next month, and then i will quit my job. three and a half months later, i quit my job. i am going to be an actor.

a friend of mine gets me an (unpaid) internship with one of the best casting agencies in new york. for eight hours a day, i open hundreds of unsolicited talent queries. i file them to remain unseen by anyone with clout. i shatter dreams. my hands are riddled with paper cuts. i watch 74 people audition for a combos commercial, a verizon commercial, a wamu commercial. i listen to 47 people sing "light my candle." i get leftover tickets to broadway shows. three months later, my time there is scheduled to end. i am rewarded with a stipend and a ten-minute mentorship with the head honcho. i am asked to stay on for longer. i don't. i am going to be an actor.

i audition. every day. i wake up at 5:00 am, get clean, ride the q train for 44 minutes to the actors' equity center in times square, wait in line for two hours, am finally let inside to wait anywhere from an hour to eight hours with the hope of being seen. for those of you that haven't tried this strange life, this is how it works for the neophytes, the non-union actors. you wait. you wait. you hope. you wait. and sometimes you get to audition, and mostly you don't. i know 26 monologues that i can recite at the drop of a hat. i know 14 accents, twice as many with a week's notice. i live in as much seclusion as possible. i am sad. i am going to be an actor.

i marginally succeed. i book everything that doesn't matter. i don't book everything that matters. i wait. i wait. i hope. i wait. and one day, while i am waiting, i begin to write. a fellow rookie, a few rookies down from me in line, is drinking a gallon of milk. a gallon, really? actors... i write a scene that involves a gallon of milk. i write a scene that involves one hundred umbrellas; this eventually gets scrapped. i write a scene that involves the girl of everyone's dreams. and soon everyday, i am writing while waiting, and waiting becomes less like waiting. i don't mean to, but i stop auditioning. i have a new friend. his name is lincoln booth. he is me, and he is not going to be an actor.

yours.
n.gray