Yesterday, I attended a meeting with a young actor-cum-screenwriter who, when faced with my skepticism regarding his work and credibility, began to pick me apart. At one point, he even attempted psychoanalysis, asking if I had siblings and trying to relate my relationship with my brothers to my apparent "tough girl" personality. Apparently I come off as very tough when I'm running on a few hours of sleep, no breakfast, the memory of a catastrophic midnight show in a rowdy bar, and I'm meeting with a complete artiste of a stranger. Anyway, he asked me to delineate my intentions for my career. I stuttered and felt as if I could not answer him, but that's not the case. I realized that I didn't want to answer him, why should I have to reveal to this stranger a lifetime's worth of artistic goals I hope to conquer? This morning, I read a New York Times article profiling one of my favorite actors, Willem Dafoe, and I align myself with him:
"Nobody has to know what I think about what I do,” he said in his gentlemanly growl during a recent lunch in the meatpacking district. “In fact it’s very important, I think, for an actor to keep their mouth shut on some level.”
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