I'm Incredibly Stupid And It's Ruining My Life

My lack of intelligence is hindering me as an artist and as a business woman. And I am determined to find out why. But I can't. Cause I'm stupid.

I am worried I’m not an intelligent person. I’m not expecting to be a genius. But to understand the bare minimum, I find myself falling short. How information seems to float around my head rather than seep inside. There are times when something is explained to me again and again and I can’t comprehend what is actually being said.

I’m surrounded by intelligent people. My friends. They were studious and are hardworking. They have their fancy tech jobs, with their high-paying salaries. My parents seem to know everything; if they don’t understand something, they sit down and do enough research to figure it out. They can figure it out. Obviously, I know them all well enough that they are still learning about themselves. I’m not that naïve where I believe everyone except me has it together. But the simplest things – the things that seem to escape me – that, they seem to understand.

With Spring coming, my parents called me one day and told me I need to file my taxes. I simply responded, “where?” And to be quite honest, I was only half kidding.

I wonder if my lack of intelligence is what hinders me as a successful artist.

I’m grateful for my education. Though I wish, somehow, I could’ve gotten more – I could’ve done more. My university maintained a rigorous curriculum. I became skilled in developing concepts. To think creatively. To interpret, dissect and analyze. I solidified myself as an artist. Whether I was a good one or not is beyond the point. I learned to think like one. I did not, however, learn how to be a businesswoman. And at the end of the day, artists are businesspeople. We are storytellers, sure. We are innovative, creative. But we are businesspeople. And we are constantly selling ourselves.

At school, we didn’t have exams. No. We had critiques. The class would all gather around and assess each student’s project. We were taught the “hamburger” approach – where you start with a compliment, the “bun” – something you liked about the piece or a creative choice that the artist made; it is then followed by constructive criticism, the “meat” – something the artist could’ve done better, detailing what didn’t work out; completed by another compliment, the lower “bun” – ending on a positive note and notes on how the work could be even bigger. For the most part, students had been conditioned to do so. Most students developed the skill to provide constructive criticism towards their peers. And it wasn’t necessarily the “hamburger” technique every time.

A full debate would be ignited just from one student’s piece. Sometimes, there are not compliments but rather comments on how the piece could’ve been better. I would’ve preferred anything over the alternative – the one where no one speaks.

That moment is the most breaking. You feel every inch of your body start to dissipate. You sit there. Just waiting for anyone, anybody, to say anything. But rather they just stare. As if there is nothing worth saying. My peers would have no problem making negative criticism – criticism that does eventually help you grow. But when they can’t even think of anything. When the minutes of time allotted to specifically discuss my work is full of silence. Like my work is in no way thought-provoking. Which is the worst. I’d rather have negative comments than nothing. Rather they rip my piece apart. Taking everything, every choice, I put my mind and body into and feed into it. But I didn’t get that. Not all the time, at least.

Our critiques were relatively tame introductions to selling ourselves. And I wasn’t able to do it.

I recall the first script I had critiqued in class. In my sophomore year of college, I decided to take up a screenwriting class. Though I was figuring out the logistics – the formatting, the technique, etcetera, I fell in love with it. This form of storytelling. It felt right to me. It made sense. I wasn’t very good. No, no. Not at all. I just started to take up a new skill set. Vastly different than the one that rewarded me with my admission to the school. I had just started classes at the Second City as well. A choice made for my mental health. Comedy writing was something that became fun for me.

I had decided to write a pilot for my Sophomore Seminar class. A class that seemingly had no importance in my curriculum. I believe the idea of it stemmed from it teaching us how to be profitable artists. That was certainly not the case in the class I was in. I’m pretty sure the professor was only there because she had to be. Regardless, in this class, I was exposed to the different sides of my university. While my classes followed my work, as I did theirs, this class didn’t know me. Nor I them. I wasn’t familiar with their mediums of choice. I was unsuccessful in this class.

I couldn’t sell myself. I wasn’t capable of doing so.

I had written a comedy pilot. Looking back, this wasn’t good writing. There was no build to a bigger story – a necessity for a pilot. The characters were not compelling. The plot was boring and, frankly, kind of stupid. But I remember giggling my entire way through it. It was about me and my friends. And our adventures in our West Loop apartment. One of the few things that brought me joy at the time.

Now I wasn’t expecting a very in-depth analysis of a comedy script. Though comedic scripts, the good ones at least, can provoke enlightening discussions. That was the eventual dream. To create something so compelling, to use my intelligence to the fullest. To ignite thought processes. This wasn’t the script that would’ve fostered that — my first shot at writing like this. I couldn’t have expected more. However, I wanted people to enjoy it. It was imperative that they enjoyed it. That someone other than me enjoys my writing. Because what’s a writer without their reader?

We had 30 minutes allotted for each student’s critique. Because I didn’t think to send my 25-page script ahead of time, we spent the first 19 minutes reading it in class. Determined to have my peers engaged in reading 25 pages, I casted the parts. Each student had a role. I read the screen directions. Formatted like a traditional read-thru, the type they would do during pre-production. To their credit, my peers/actors did their best to act out the roles. But that only left us with 11 minutes for a proper critique. And I got nothing. The second I read the screen direction “fade to black”, the class went silent. Our professor pushed for some conversation. “Please say something. I can’t deal with 11 minutes of silence from this god-awful script,” I remember her eyeing the other students. There weren’t laughs. There wasn’t advice on how I could’ve been better. What they would’ve preferred instead. Nothing. Some made some comments. Useless. They were useless. “I liked this”; “What was your inspiration?”; “What is your goal?” They were lazy and uninspired.

Stupid. I felt stupid. And the feeling lingered. How could I have been naïve enough to think I can make work that was in any way intelligent. Thankfully, I liked writing enough to continue pursuing it. I did have those classroom discussions in future critiques. Where those silences were filled with compliments and criticisms alike. The ones that provoked debates. I did have those. But I constantly looked back on that day. And the other days that were similar.

During my tenure at college, I dreaded those silences. But I wasn’t able to figure out what wasn’t working. I felt stupid and useless. The night before those critiques, I would utilize that hyper-active imagination of mine and conjure up the potential conversation my piece would stir. In my head, everything made sense. The choices I made were conscious, thought-out, elaborate. But sometimes the choices you make don’t translate it. And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

It's always a constant battle where I feel like everyone knows a secret except me.

Frequently during these critiques, I found myself sometimes making up things as I went. Some of the choices weren’t deliberate but rather done for aesthetic reasons or, perhaps, they were even done on accident. A peer would ask why I made a specific choice. And if I didn’t have an answer, I would simply pull something out of my ass. They would nod and sometimes respond back, continuing the conversation. I wonder if they saw through the bullshit. Because I wanted my work to come across as something that was well-thought-out. Where every little thing, each brushstroke, each word, had a meaning. Like I was smart enough to conjure things like that and build intent behind my work. But honestly, who said concept needed to be intentional all the time?

And I am not smart enough to sell myself.  These critiques were in a confined classroom. A safe space. Though it didn’t feel like it at the time, there were no long-term stakes. But now as someone who is pursuing a career as an artist. I wonder if that silence spills out into the real world. When the intelligent people around advise me on how I should navigate my career as an artist, it doesn’t feel in tune with how I was taught as an artist. Though they are not entirely contrasting, it feels as if two puzzle pieces don’t fit. Hell, I’m not even sure they are the same puzzle. But I need to make them fit and I can’t figure out how. Am I just not smart enough to comprehend that balance? That rather the pieces being from two different puzzles, it’s actually part of one and I cannot see the picture on the box?

There are numerous artists that make unintelligent work. Hell, some of them even hire actual artists to develop their ideas, not give them credit and sell it as their own. Making billions and garnering fame. Those who know, know. And there are others who are absolutely brilliant. Where you look at them and their work and you just don’t understand how some people can think like this. Be this talented. Those who can spend the entire quarantine making a work of art by themselves in the comfort of their own home and create thought-provoking and enlightening pieces one after the other. And you’re in absolute awe of them.

But it seems like I have two avenues for success as an artist – either to sell myself or create groundbreaking work. I fear I’m not smart enough for either.