I want to talk a little bit about imposter syndrome. I’ve been a professional TV writer for about 28 years. I’ve written on a ton of hit shows, but about six years ago, I got it through my head that I wanted to try something different creatively.
I wanted to write and perform a collection of short stories similar to what David Sedaris does.
I told this to my wife and she responded, “Oh, okay. That’s a big undertaking.”
And it is. It would be three or four years of work before I even got out of the gate.
But I like big undertakings.
So I started writing these stories. I was about two years into it — the book hadn’t even come out yet — when I decided that I should start performing them. That way I could test how the stories play in front of audiences and rewrite them as necessary.
We found a local theater — great location, good price, etc — and I put a deposit down. As we’re driving away from the theater, I started to worry.
“What happens if I stage a show and no one comes?”
Then an even worse realization hit me.
“What happens if only three people show up? I’ve got a theater that sees 50. How sad would that look!”
A few days later, I announced my show on social media. Much to my relief, tickets started to sell. These were strangers on the internet, who had been following me for a few years, and wanted to see what I could do.
But a couple days into it, I started getting responses from people saying, “I’m so excited to see this show. I just bought my plane tickets!”
“Plane tickets?!? Whoa, whoa. No one said anything about booking plane tickets!”
Once again, I started to freak out. Even though I’m a successful writer and producer of TV shows, I’d never done this before. Here I was telling everyone about this great book I was writing, and no one, other than my wife, had even read it yet! And now I was performing it?!
I got in the tub, just to calm down.
Immediately, I got out of the tub and I ran to my wife. “Am I delusional?”
I meant it. I wasn’t being hyperbolic. I was dead serious.
“Am I having delusions? Do I need to see a doctor? Because this sounds crazy. “
And she responded, “Yes, you’re delusional. You’ve always been delusional. I mean, you moved out to Hollywood to become a TV writer. That’s a little crazy.”
“Yeah, but I made that decision when I was 22 years old. Kids do stupid shit all the time. I’m a grown ass man. I’m selling tickets to a show. Who the hell am I?!”
My wife, an actor I met on the set of Just Shoot Me years ago, directs my solo show. At this point, we’d been rehearsing every day, but we hadn’t yet done a run-through at the theater.
On our first run-through, Cynthia introduced me and I walked on stage very modestly. To me, that felt real and natural.
“Stop! Do it again!” she yelled.
I hadn’t even started yet, and I was doing it wrong?
“That’s not how you walk on stage,” she said. “When you walk on stage, you are a rockstar.”
“That’s great, but I’m not a rockstar. I’m an aging television writer.”
“Maybe so, but people are buying plane tickets to see a rockstar. They don’t want to see you, they want to see him. So pretend you’re a rockstar.”
When show night rolled around, sure enough, I walked on stage like a rockstar. The place went nuts and the show was a hit.
We’ve since performed A Paper Orchestra all across the country. This summer we performed seven sold out shows at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, and even took home a 2025 Edinburgh Fringe Award. And the book that the show is based on, has also won awards.
All of this success came from one moment — the moment I gave myself permission to be the person I wanted to be.
That’s a lot to get your head around.
I’ll say it again. You have to give yourself permission to be the person you want to be before you’re even that person. Then you can work backwards and do all the things a rockstar does in order to put on a great show.
Enjoyed this post! And yes, the power of a great partner cannot be overstated, especially in those moments of self-doubt.
So cuute!