We put an awful lot of pressure on seventeen-year-olds. They are full-time students, part-time workers, weekend volunteers, de-facto babysitters, dance captains, bassoon soloists, Hope Harcourts, Future U.N. Greece Representatives – and now, they can’t even get away with a misused semi-colon!
Why struggle through something that we’re not good at, when something else can do it for us “perfectly” and instantly?
Storytelling, our most central pastime – literally the thing we did before we figured out the whole fire thing – has been commandeered by the illusion of perfection. We can blame billionaire tech guys, the perpetuation of rise-and-grind claptraps, industry upheaval, and not least of all, generative A.I. But, truthfully: Considering our schedules, is it really any wonder that we are looking for a way to be perfect right now? Developing a skill over decades of diligence is grand and all, but we’re trying to get into college next semester. Why struggle through something that we’re not good at, when something else can do it for us “perfectly” and instantly? It’s a hard bargain for over-worked seventeen-year-olds.
What generative AI puts out is grammatically sound (most of the time). That’s true. It is also completely generic, flat, and lifeless. By its very nature, generative AI pulls from the stolen work of millions of artists, and spits out something that sounds like all of them and none of them, simultaneously. There’s a reason for that. Faulkner posited that any author worth their salt is always pulling from experience, observation, and imagination, usually two at a time. Generative AI is capable of zero out of three. It certainly can’t pull from personal experience which, as you can imagine, renders its attempt at the personal essay rather moot.
The fear of imperfection is understandable. The scarcity mindset is contagious, and the competition is fierce. It is also the most valuable thing we have.
After applying to nineteen undergraduate programs, I didn’t get into my top pick. That was a rough afternoon. I wept, loudly, at the library computer, as though my entire family had been abducted by cannibals. Bless the librarian who crouched behind her desk and pretended not to notice.
So I attended my second pick, with resentment and bitterness in my heart. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a wonderful turn of luck. It’s how I met my first writing partner. Ran my own independent theater company. And, eventually, how I ended up in Los Angeles with a portfolio that meant something to colleagues, managers, and executive producers. And years later, when I visited that coveted top pick, I admitted that it would have been a terrible fit. They were in a season of absurd theatre, and my earthy Texan-ness would have had no place to grow. I could have lied in my supplemental essay – luxuriated on how Sam Beckett really just lights me up – but for what? For a nice footnote on my resume and zero time on the mainstage? I might have spent all four years pushing against a door that was never going to open for me.
Every failed venture – every misplaced semi-colon – led me here, to a career that I love and that suits me
Every failed venture – every misplaced semi-colon – led me here, to a career that I love and that suits me. I don’t have to wear tailored trousers to an office every day, or answer to a gaggle of suits, or spend thirty-five hours a week on the phone. Those things I thought I wanted – or what I thought I was supposed to want – would have made me miserable. Sometimes it doesn’t work out because we would have hated it.
The only way to build a career that suits you is to be authentic in your expression. That means being honest about your experience, your observations, and your imagination. It is natural to overthink your supplemental materials – and everything else. We want to put our best foot forward, and we certainly don’t want something as silly as a misspelled adjective to keep someone from taking us seriously.
But in this age of calculated curation, of mechanized cleanliness, authenticity shines brighter than ever
But in this age of calculated curation, of mechanized cleanliness, authenticity shines brighter than ever. Any nervous teenager can prompt a chat bot to sputter out a paragraph about the history of Kabuki theatre. It takes a courageous, rebellious, and honest person to say, with clarity and confidence, this is who I am, and this is what I want. Who needs perfection when that sort of magnetism is in the room?
If we want job opportunities post-grad, this is the way to do it. Being ambitious is impressive and all, but being truthful about our experiences and our intentions lands us in the best program for us, every single time. And the ensemble you wind up in will carry you through the stormy seas of your twenties, and beyond. If we obfuscate or embellish to the point of dishonesty, we might end up in a group that we have nothing in common with, who don’t get us. Prestige gets you an internship. Ensemble gets you a career.
Transparently, this was not an easy post for me to write. It’s been three months since I slept well. One job ended, another began. I am moving, haggling with people on Facebook Marketplace, and in desperate need of a grocery run. It is difficult to sit, and focus, and pull words from the river. But I’ve been doing this for a long time now, and I know how to push through. I’ve done it before, many times. It’s become a part of my work ethic, as reliable a tool as Final Draft.
There’s a great saying in Appalachia: “The moon doesn’t shine the same way twice.” It means that, even if you go to the same place, at the same time, every night, it will never feel exactly the same. The grass has grown, or been cut. The chickadees have nested, or they haven’t. Every moment is special, in and of itself: A kaleidoscope of happenstances. The same rule applies to writing, to performance, and to everything else.
Tenacity is a wildly underrated skill, but musical theater professionals have it in spades
Words will come. Some days they just show up at your door like fallen leaves, and it takes no effort at all to sort them out. Other days, not so much. It’ll feel more like corralling meerkats. The skill that’s being developed in these moments is tenacity. The work is not pleasant, or instantly rewarding, but the next time you feel fogged in the brain, you will be a little bit better at pushing through it and getting to the truth anyway. Tenacity is a wildly underrated skill, but musical theater professionals have it in spades.
By being truthful and tenacious in your expression, you invite those who speak your same language to engage. By attending to your instincts, you invite what is made for you to come closer. By asking for exactly what you want – not what you think you ought to want – it becomes yours.
Lindsey is a writer, editor, and filmmaker. She received her BFA in Dramatic Arts from The New School, and MFA in Writing for Screen & Television from the University of Southern California.
As a screenwriter, Lindsey has collaborated with Annapurna Pictures, Austin Film Festival, Aymara Films, De Line Pictures, Groundswell Productions, LPZ Media, Orwell Productions, SK Global Entertainment, and Sony. For prose and journalism, she has been published in Breath & Shadow, The Daily Trojan, Narwhal Nation, Teen Vogue, Temporal Lobe Literary, and Wilderness House Literary Review. She is the recipient of the Jack Oakie Award for Half-Hour Comedy Writing, the Joel Rosenzweig Storytelling Award, a Shriram Fellow, and was a writer-in-residence at the Vermont Studio Center in 2025. She is the co-founder of Hidden Rabbits Media, a new nonprofit that specializes in documentary and educational podcast production.
Lindsey has spent over a decade working with high-school and undergraduate students. She provided tutoring services at Booker T. Washington High-School for the Performing and Visual Arts from 2012 – 2015. She was an essay coach with Varsity Tutors from 2019 – 2022. Since 2023, she has served as the Director’s Assistant for the Domestic Study Program at Dartmouth College.
