Sara Benincasa - Real Artists Have Day Jobs: (And Other Awesome Things They Dont Teach You in School)

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The essays Real Artists Have Day Jobs, Do It Anyway, and It Gets Better, Mostly appeared in earlier forms on Medium.com.

The essay It Gets Better, Mostly appeared in an earlier form in Internazionale magazine.

The essay Stop Apologizing for Everything appeared in an earlier form on Jezebel.com.

REAL ARTISTS HAVE DAY JOBS. Copyright 2016 by Sara Benincasa Donnelly. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-236981-9

EPub Edition February 2016 ISBN 978-0-06-236982-6

16 17 18 19 20 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my brother, Steven Donnelly,
and his new wife, Elaine Powell Donnelly,
I wish you many years of happiness and wacky hijinks

B efore we begin, it behooves me to provide an accounting of my lack of qualifications to write this book.

I am an author and comedian. I have a masters degree in teaching grades seven through twelve from Teachers College at Columbia University. I have an undergraduate degree in creative writing from Warren Wilson College. I am a licensed driver in the state of New Jersey. I think I got certified for CPR a couple of times but Ive totally forgotten how to do it. I dont even remember the Heimlich maneuver.

I have no degree or certification in medicine, psychology, psychiatry, counseling, social work, fitness, nutrition, health, massage therapy, acupuncture, craniosacral therapy, Thai yoga therapy, equine therapy, canine therapy, avian therapy, Reiki (which was invented in 1922 by a Japanese dude and appeals to the Orientalist sensibilities inherent in American culture, even and especially among white liberals seeking a panacea to the admittedly restrictive and damaging tenets of conventional religion, so, enjoy paying for that), scrimshaw, or homeopathy (which is also not real, sorry).

Lest you think me entirely without fondness for the woo-woo-ooky-spooky in this life: I play with friggin fairy cards designed by Brian Froud. Ive gotten Reiki (for free) because sometimes its just nice to be still and have somebody focus on youlike when girls would play with each others hair at middle school slumber parties. I do enjoy spiritual practices. I do see the beauty in various religions. I do hope there is Something Else Out There, and that it is good and right and loving and tolerant of our occasional recreational drug usethe Big Cool Stepmom in the Sky.

I also enjoy science, and if the vast majesty of the natural world is truly all there is, Im okay with that. I think thats pretty damn beautiful.

I have always been suspicious of those who give advice without admitting their own misdeeds and missteps. To me, the most authentic insight comes from those who acknowledge their own shortcomings and readily admit they are still working on improving themselves each and every day.

I used to write an advice column for a website that eventually just stopped responding to my emails. I mostly enjoyed my time there, particularly because the advice I gave was born of my own mistakes. I never purported to be an expert or a holier-than-thou preacher; I felt this would be disingenuous. Anyway, after I was ghosted out of a gig there, I thought it might be interesting to try to write a series of fifty-two essays (one for each week in the year, if you so desire) about life as an adult human who is just trying to be a better and happier person. An alternate title for this book might be Im Not Perfect, Youre Not Perfect, Lets Work on It While Drinking Iced Tea and/or Bourbon.

This is a book of advice and ideas inspired by my thirty-five years of flaws, fuckups, failures, and occasional good choices. It is written with love and enthusiasm and excitement and nervousness and fear and pain and all of those important human emotions. I hope it makes you feel less lonely. I hope it makes you think. I hope it makes you smile. I hope it makes you confident. I hope it makes you buy my other books, all at full retail price.

And I hope it makes you laugh.

Sara Benincasa

Los Angeles, CA

December 2015

H ave you ever dreamed of being a real artist?

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to call yourself a real painter, or a real writer, or a real actress, or a real musician?

Have you ever described yourself as someone who does something amazing and magical and wonderful and life affirming and then added on the side?

Well, you might not like what I have to say.

Because I have come here today to deliver the unfortunate truth that you are lying to yourself.

You are not going to become a real artist one day.

You are a real artist right now.

You are a real artist when you sit in traffic, when you wait for the dentist, when you clean up the toys in your kids bedroom.

I have known I was a real writer since I was a little kid in Flemington, New Jersey.

How did I know I was a writer?

I got lucky.

A grown-up told me.

When you are a little kid and an adult tells you that you are something, you are wont to believe it. Remember this the next time a kid tells you she is a ballerina, or a math genius, or a comet streaking through an inky black night sky.

For years, I wrote only in my journals. I wrote diary entries, and sometimes stories about myself or other people I knew or celebrities or imaginary creatures. When I stayed home sick from school, I took pieces of yellow stationery with the Mack trucks logo (this was where my grandma worked) and I wrote and drew comic strips about magical people.

In the third grade I wrote a short story called Jareds Christmas, which won an award from the New Jersey Council of Teachers of English. There was a ceremony and I was very, very nervous, because even then I had panic disorder, but I accepted my award and got my certificate and my mother and father clapped really loud and it felt really good to know I was a real writer.