The first time I participated in a Q&A session after a film premiere, the initial question out of the gate was, “What’s your next project?” It was a little disorienting. Couldn’t we talk about the film that had just screened? A lot of people had put their blood, sweat, and tears into the project over the course of a year, so it seemed a little premature to be moving right along to the next one. (Little did I know this is one of the top three questions asked at most Q&As, along with “What was your budget?” and “How much of the script was improvised?”)
I know the audience member who asked the question was simply trying to break the ice, and I hope that they liked the movie so much that they simply couldn’t wait to hear when the next one was coming out. But at the heart of my initial disorientation was the glaring fact that I didn’t have another project on the horizon. After breaking into an instantaneous cold sweat, I nervously wisecracked that they would most likely see me the next time they went out to dinner, because I was waitressing at a few places in New York City at the time. But I remember spinning into some sort of existential spiral the next day after realizing I didn’t have anything to work on. How would I be able to sustain myself and enjoy the fruits of my labor without spiraling into a panic after it was all over?
An acting teacher once told my class that it was essential to carve out some sort of creative space for yourself that you could return to once the show was over. She wasn’t referring to an actual physical space, but to the part of the brain where you can fortify and regenerate in between gigs. She told us to take the time to actually get lost in museums, or take long walks outside on the days when we didn’t know what was ahead of us. She said it was totally fine to daydream, to space out while listening to music on the subway, or to spend a few hours drawing or painting or doing any creative endeavor that spoke to us intuitively.
I refer to this now as “creative cocooning.” You have every right to retract into yourself a little bit to regenerate after a show or film has ended. When acting is done well it takes a lot out of you, and when it’s over, you have a void that’s left and the real world in its place. This includes grinding survival jobs, disappointing auditions, various forms of rejection, and the constant question of whether you’ll ever work again. It’s essential to keep feeding your creative mind during the dry spells because it’s all fuel you’ll use for the next project.
I’ve found it helpful to bask in the “cocooning” period whenever that time is afforded to me. When the inevitable question “What’s your next project?” comes up, I’ve found “recharging my batteries” is a pretty honest answer for me. (But seriously, if anyone wants me to work on something, I’m free.)
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