To be, damn it!

The life of an artist is filled with highs and lows, twists and turns. Somewhere along the way, we all trip over questions about what we are doing and why on Earth we are doing it. There are thousands of people competing for every role, however small, and "no" is the watchword. Workshops are expensive and filled with the unmistakable stench of desperation. Some of us are really only getting a creative fix in a class setting, which is also a hardship on the wallet and fulfilling to none. We try to glean more opportunities by self-submitting everywhere possible, but how many of these breakdowns say that pay is non-applicable or that they will be distributing on YouTube? Really?! But anything beats a cubicle and a dread of Mondays, at least most of the time.

So, how do you beat the doldrums, uncertainties and pitfalls into despair? The good news is, this is not an entirely unique position for artists. The average Joe will question where they are in their lives periodically, and others will struggle to ever find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Passion will dwindle, fires will cool. What is left at the end of the day? Even if the motivation changes, if the driving need for creative release exists, it must be honored. This is not about fame, but rather hard work, skill and conditioning to be camera-ready. There are countless talented people that never find their way through those important doors. We got agents, made it into the union and have resumes that no one cares about. How can we be in service to our art when the gatekeepers are so savvy at only allowing those in the clique to make it inside the room?

All the doubt piles on until a breaking point is reached and the world goes dark. It's like losing your first tooth. Part of you is dangling there, looking foreign and unwelcoming. The pain is excruciating with no end in sight. You don't want to touch it or look at it or deal with it. Until the tooth finally falls out and upon reflection, you realize that wasn't so bad after all. Even the strongest walls can only withstand so much pressure before they crumble. The silver lining is that new teeth grow in, pain subsides and happiness is always available whenever you are ready for it. My best advice: Turn into the skid and accelerate.

L.A. Examiner Articles

A link to my Examiner articles... A worthy read.

http://www.examiner.com/user-erinrae-miller

Fucket List

Somewhere along the dash to check off each item on a lengthy Bucket List, I realized that some things are better on paper. That is why I am starting my Fucket List. It's time to face the facts-- there are things worth abandoning.

Item Number One: PADI certification.

I'm completely certain that I will love scuba diving as a hobby or vacation activity, but the life and death nature of diving to great depths of the ocean as some sort of expert isn't for this girl. I don't want to take my mask off under water and get it back on without snorting sea water through my nose and panicking, rocketing back to the surface where the bends threaten my blood. I don't want my water supply to be secretly turned off. I am not going to remember the stupid hand signals for my buddy to give me his octopus (back-up air supply) so that I don't die. There is no way I can take my weight belt off under water and get it back on without cracking myself in the head, which is actually hard to do. Not to mention the fact that the oxygen tank weighs half of what I do, making it a nightmare to get into the water once I have the tank, the weight belt and the fins on. For all you jerks that thought I was certifiable, you were incorrect.

So to the Professional Association of Diving Instructors, to you I say FUCKET!!

Arabian Nights

Somewhere after the Hawaiian feast and delicious, delicious sangria, three girlfriends braved the fashion district together. After a promise to several shops to return before the end of business day to purchase a few items, no money had yet changed hands. After all, with the bountiful choices of the L.A. alleys, one has to be frugal and particular with spending power.

That's when I saw the pants. Genie pants. With cheap cotton drawstrings. They were glorious. Or maybe that was the sangria. Either way, that mannequin was working those black and white beauties and I decided I could do it better. So, I made my first purchase. Then Malo decided she liked them, too, and she wanted to put them on right away because it was too hot for jeans and boots--another one of my great ideas, though I suffered gladly for my autumn wardrobe. And then, I just suffered, as Malo was now wearing the Aladdin pants with a navy top, brown fanny pack and black motorcycle boots. And just when it couldn't get any weirder, Emily (new recruit to this circle of friends, and an excellent one at that) also purchased the pants.

Later, we all powwowed back at Emily's for a nightcap, of course wearing our new duds and vowing to never wear them again...

We all woke up with some buyer's remorse and a hilarious $18 story. I can only conclude that there must have been vodka in that sangria, and I must also apologize for being condemned to never share any of the pants' pictures. It's probably worse than you think...

It's Always Sunny in Los Angeles

The Fall of Erin is not scheduled to begin (de)construction until 2050, leaving at least 14, 235 hay-days. Thank you for your patience.

Vegas, Baby!

Vegas. I used to think "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" was an idiotic thing to say, but it turns out to be true. It should stay there. Always. All I can tell you about my recent trip there is this: I may be permanently blacklisted from the MGM Grand, I found the outside of my comfort zone with a stripper named Delishay (some variation of Delicious), and Swedish people are crazy.

Remember that time you gave me the ants?

One of my best gal pals, Malo, surprised me with a small, blue vase she bought at an art school. There were wild flowers crowding the stem, which she had picked while singing and prancing, thinking of me--but that's her version of the story. My story kicks in an hour or so later, when we were waving our goodbyes. I placed the tiny gifted ceramic in between my legs for the drive home to ensure its safe travels. Once parked, I realized that there were ants crawling everywhere. And not just any ants, the bitey kind. I began slapping myself on all exposed skin and hunting down the runners with an opposable thumb. More than a few got away, though they have probably suffocated in their hot, leather hiding places by now. That is my hope, at least. I am still itchy with bites from that time Malo gave me the ants...

**Stay tuned for tonight's adventure: Malo and I go to the Prince concert.