The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  Around this time a girl from my church casually invited me to a surprise party for another girl from church. Although I didn’t know Invitation Girl or Birthday Girl, I decided to go to the party anyway. Invitation Girl told me it was going to be a Peter Pan–themed party and that I could dress up if I wanted. I play dress up for a living—during my concerts, music videos, and photo shoots—yet I still get excited over the idea of going to a party in costume. I was also looking forward to attending a social event where alcohol wasn’t the main attraction. Who needs beer when you have a bomb diggity pirate costume?! I had recently finished working on my “Master of Tides” music video (which was pirate themed, for those who haven’t seen it), so naturally I opted to go all out. I wore the coat, the boots, the sash, and the enormous pirate hat. As the final touch, I made a hook out of some tinfoil and went as the captain himself.

  When I arrived at the party I walked through the door and scanned the crowd; I was the only pirate in the whole place. I think I saw one girl wearing a Tinker Bell T-shirt. Other than that, it appeared I was the only attendee who got, much less accepted, the costume memo. This was disappointing, but not devastating. Unfortunately, as the night went on, Invitation Girl kept introducing me to everyone by saying I was famous. The night was uncomfortable in more ways than one.

  A few weeks later, I went to an album release party for Meghan Trainor. In an effort to engage in conversation, I turned to the man on my right and mentioned how much I loved Meghan’s music. He looked at me and asked, “Who’s Meghan?” I stared back at him in awe before responding, “Meghan Trainor . . . the girl that was on the stage a few minutes ago. This is her album release party.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. My publicist told me I should come. I’m a male model, and I just got back from doing some work in Paris with Premium.”

  Let me guess, your publicist told you to say that, too, I thought as I excused myself.

  Industry parties are a lot of networking, name-dropping, and self-promotion—not my favorite chitchat. I spent the rest of the evening turning away drinks and shaking hands with slightly sloppy attendees. Suddenly, I missed being the random girl in a pirate outfit at a sober birthday party. Once again, I was floating in No-Man’s-Land.

  Standing out on purpose is one thing, but doing so by default takes a lot of energy and confidence. I’m proud of the things that set me apart, and I know why they are good; but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult. Every now and then I wish I wasn’t the only one-piece swimsuit at the pool, the only sleeved dress on the red carpet, the only sober performer in the room, or the only pirate at the party. Not because I don’t see the value in these things, but because sometimes being different feels a lot like being alone, and being alone is exhausting.

  A few days after the industry party, I got the following e-mail from Erich.

  Hey there little lady,

  I wanted to take just a second of your already hectic life and address a few things that have been playing on my mind regarding these last few months on tour. I just want to say thank you, on several levels. Being able to work with you has been a breath of fresh air after breathing very stale, tired, and grumpy club/arena air for the last sixteen years (but I guess that also depends on how close we stand next to each other). In all seriousness though, I have thoroughly enjoyed you, as a person, an employer, and an artist. I have never felt so honored to be a part of something growing the way this is, and I am truly excited for the future. I can also say I have never written a thank-you note to any other act or group I have ever worked for.

  God has truly given you a gift and I am so happy to see that you keep Him in your life every day, on the bus, and even in the venue. He is very much in every step you take and people recognize that. They may not know what it is they are seeing or feeling, but He is there in you. I always find it funny how the big gnarly crew guys have a lighter step at the end of the night than they had upon our arrival, and they always have a newfound smile on their face when you are present. God works in and through you in such a great way. I really do love being a part of your team and I am willing to back you in whatever way you are willing to have me along.

  Thank you, from the depths of my heart, for a truly great experience. And please, please stay pure and healthy in mind, body, and soul because you still got a long way to go. So, breathe deep and breathe often.

  Love and Thanks,

  Tour Dad

  It’s moments like these that remind me I’m not actually living in No-Man’s-Land.

  CONFESSIONS

  I have a few confessions to make. Since this book is a safe zone, I thought now would be a good time to bring them up.

  CONFESSION #1

  As hard as it is to believe, I don’t like it when people leave comments on my photos or videos about how tired or sick I look. I know these remarks are made out of concern for my well-being, but no woman likes to be told she looks haggard—and we all know that’s what “sick and tired” really means. More often than not, I’m healthy, well-ish rested, and not wearing any makeup. So there’s that.

  CONFESSION #2

  A pillow preference is a very personal thing. Like brand loyalty to Oreos or deodorant, some things are better left unchanged. My pillow of choice is firm, and I absolutely cannot stand down pillows. They always look so fluffy, but when I lay my head down, it goes right through the middle and hits the bed. They might as well be made out of Jell-O. Sometimes when my hotel room has down pillows, I call the front desk and say I’m allergic. . . . It’s not a total lie; I’m allergic in my heart.

  CONFESSION #3

  This one is hard for me, and it’s probably going to break a lot of hearts, but I don’t like Nutella. I took a picture with a giant container once, because it was a novelty size. The influx of Nutella sent by fans afterward kept me quiet for a long time, but I feel like I need to come clean. Next time, I’ll take a picture with a puppy. Preferably a small puppy that doesn’t bark, is housebroken, and likes to cuddle. Luckily, my lighting tech, Andy, does love Nutella. He sends his sincere thanks.

  CONFESSION #4

  I love to hide and scare people. Unfortunately, the guys aren’t as easy to sneak up on as my mom is, so I’ve recently resorted to screaming, “I’m naked!” when they enter a room. I know, it’s a cheap shot.

  CONFESSION #5

  I do not abide by expiration dates. I have a lot of faith in modern preservatives. Instead of reading labels, I follow the “look, smell, and taste” method.

  CONFESSION #6

  My favorite word is tortellini. I do not have an explanation for this. Say it five times in a row and tell me you don’t love it.

  CONFESSION #7

  My least favorite word is fester. So many people have a problem with the word moist. That’s how I describe a delicious cupcake or brownie. Moist treats do not bother me. But festering ones? I think I’ve made my point.

  CONFESSION #8

  When I am tired, I get super honest. For example, I once told Erich I had a raging wart on my heel that was snagging all my socks. I must be getting tired, because I wasn’t going to tell you that, either.

  CONFESSION #9

  I think about breakfast as I am going to sleep, and it’s the reason I get out of bed every morning. Once, I slept through the continental breakfast hours at a hotel and I cried a little. Go ahead, I’m judging myself.

  CONFESSION #10

  Unevenly spread peanut butter gives me anxiety. You couldn’t take two extra seconds to get it into the corners? My two-year-old self could make a more appetizing sandwich than that! Here *takes knife*, just step aside.

  CONFESSION #11

  My crew has named two of my belongings “Smelly Sweaty Stinky Thing” and “Sadness 1.” I don’t feel safe enough to tell you exactly what they are referring to. Okay, fine, I’ll whisper it. Lean in. Get closer. I don’t stink right now! (The performance belt that holds my sound pack, and my wardrobe case.)

  CONFESSION #12

  I have to giv
e myself a pep talk before every Phelba video I make, because she makes me as uncomfortable as she makes everyone else. Phelba has to commit 110 percent, otherwise it’s just me talking about myself in a weird voice.

  CONFESSION #13

  There are few things I find less attractive than a drunk man, which brings me to my last and final confession.

  CONFESSION #14

  This one was confessed to me. A drunk A-list celebrity heartthrob once told me he was “a bad little girl.” He also told me he would like to reserve the right to wear women’s underwear from time to time. Gosh, it feels good to get that off my chest.

  EVERYONE STARTS OUT

  IN KHAKIS

  When I think of my first job, two things come to mind immediately: accidentally sabotaging my best friend’s interview and Tyler from customer service. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, and out of boredom, Michelle and I walked into the SuperTarget and applied for the same job. We were both invited in for a group interview scheduled for later that afternoon, and rather than going home to change into more professional clothing or brush our teeth, we spent two hours trying on shoes and flipping through greeting cards. During the interview the manager asked, “What does customer service mean to you?” Michelle smiled nervously and said something about “serving the customer.” She was a genius in school, but under pressure she crumbled like overcooked bacon. I knew I could either come up with an equally insipid answer or blow her out of the water. When it was my turn, I smiled and said something about “giving the best experience possible to any customer, so they leave happier than when they arrived.” I got the job, and she didn’t.

  For the next year and six weeks, I went to work every day in a red shirt and khaki pants, a color combo that makes me gag to this day. At first I was excited, because I got a walkie-talkie and a badge inscribed with my name spelled correctly. I felt very official. I also had a crush on Tyler from customer service and had fantasies about him calling my name over the walkie-talkie to meet him at his counter. When I arrived, he would pull me in for a kiss and tell me how good I looked in my uniform. It was all extremely thrilling. That is, until I realized the only purpose of the walkie-talkie was for my team leader to order me around the sales floor without having to speak with me face-to-face.

  When I finally got promoted to work a cash register, I was ecstatic—you would have thought Tyler finally came through on the walkie. While working at the register, I must have claimed it was my first day for at least a month. It’s amazing how quickly someone’s face can go from frustrated to sympathetic when you say you’re new. Consequently, every time I made a mistake when ringing someone up, I told them it was my first day. I did it for so long I started to worry I would get a returning customer, so I changed the wording a little. “This is the first time I’ve done this type of transaction, sorry.”

  “Oh, no problem, dear, take your time.”

  Working the register wasn’t nearly as fun as I had hoped, but at least I could now buy an entire tank of gas at once. That’s when I learned: Earning a paycheck is one of the best feelings in the world and wearing khaki capris is one of the worst.

  You would think after the Target incident Michelle and I would have learned not to interview for the same job. But our freshman year in college we both applied for and miraculously got hired by a marketing company that sold health and energy gels. I guess it wasn’t so miraculous considering Michelle’s uncle was the owner, but I felt lucky nonetheless.

  Our job consisted of making welcome calls to new health club customers and answering phone calls from unsatisfied ones. It was a small office. Besides Michelle and me, there were only three other employees: Brenda, who literally never stopped talking; Creepy Carl, who popped up over the top of my cubicle every five minutes to ask unnecessary questions; and Craig, who always seemed high. We resorted to talking to loud and obnoxious Brenda to avoid the other two, who both got raises before we did. After a year of talking people into buying gels they would never use, Michelle and I both realized this was not our future. That’s when I learned: If loud Brenda, Creepy Carl, and high-as-a-kite Craig could hold jobs, I could do anything.

  I held a few other jobs here and there during college, but my last real gig before I ran off with my violin for good was as a counselor at a live-in treatment center for teenage girls. Unlike most correctional facilities, New Haven was an actual house with a kitchen, living room, big backyard, cherry trees, and a horse stable. There were no spiked gates, concrete walls, or barred windows. The lack of daunting restrictions made it feel like a home, but this also required us to wrestle a girl or two who made a break for the highway. The technical term for this is “placing a hold,” which is code for “tackle and hang on.” In spite of the occasional escape attempts, I enjoyed working at New Haven, because I felt like I was doing something beyond just making money. At first, I was worried about finding the correct balance between being cool and being effective. More than once, I was the recipient of an angry rant about how I was “the worst counselor ever!” At first, these outbursts hurt, but when all was said and done, the girls always preferred the tough-love counselors over the easygoing ones. They didn’t want more freedom, they wanted to feel protected, grounded, and loved. Being able to provide that stability was one of the most rewarding feelings in the world. That’s when I learned: I wanted a job where I could make a difference, but preferably without being screamed at.

  As a performer, my life is everything I imagined and more. I live inside my imagination and get to see my ideas brought to life on a daily basis. I work in the environment I want, with the coworkers I want, at the pace I want. When all is said and done, I get a huge emotional payoff from the people who support and appreciate my music. Most important, I have the capability to make people feel significant and special, which is a humbling responsibility. But even in these ideal circumstances, I occasionally get tired and cranky and think about how nice it would be to have a normal workweek with weekends and vacation days again. It’s times like these that I’ve learned: Even dream jobs feel like work some days.

  If you don’t have your dream job, keep working at it until you do. When you get there, don’t forget it’s your dream. Remind yourself what it felt like to wear khakis every day, and everything else will seem great in comparison. And if you’re the one wearing the khakis, don’t worry, it’s not permanent . . . unless you want it to be. In that case, those capris look dang good on you.

  ARTISTIC

  MONSTER

  When I was in film school I learned how to adjust lighting and edit a movie, but no one ever taught me how to pitch an idea to a board of directors or approach the industry without embarrassing myself. I think there must be an unspoken rule in any art-related community that to speak of mainstream success is a betrayal of the indie nature of art.

  “Don’t make art because you want it to be seen, do it because you love it,” they say.

  That’s all fine, but everyone wants their art to be seen or heard. Isn’t that why we make it?

  At VidCon one year, I sat on a panel with a few other YouTubers. Someone in the crowd asked me how I measure the success of my videos. I explained that first I have to be proud of the music I’ve created. But ultimately, if the music reaches and inspires my fans, then I’ve done my job. Another performer on the panel said the opposite—that he didn’t need approval from his fans and that everything he did was in response to his own artistic values.

  I have never compromised my tastes to fit into a mold, but of course I want my music to reach my fans and hopefully inspire them. I’ll admit, when I release a project that isn’t well received, it loses a bit of the magic. I’m not an automaton! Nothing is more thrilling than having fans understand my vision, and nothing is more disappointing than when they reject it. But alas, it’s the name of the game, and I’m grateful I get to play it. So if anyone is wondering, I make art for the sake of art . . . and for my own selfish gratification, because I’m an artistic monster.<
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  Speaking of being an artistic monster, when I first started my YouTube channel, I did everything besides the actual filming myself. I wrote and recorded the music, found the film locations, made my own costumes, did my own makeup, choreographed my dances, directed each scene, edited the video, and promoted it however I could. At first, I operated this way out of necessity. I cut costs wherever possible to scrape by. But as my music career progressed, I continued to function as a one-woman army by choice. I liked having my hand in every step of the process, and I felt comfortable knowing everything was getting done exactly the way I wanted it. Granted, there were times when it was normal for me to get an average of four hours’ sleep every night, but at least I knew everything was happening on cue. I guess “artistic monster” is another term for controlling. Controlling sounds so negative. Let’s use the term go-getter.

  For years I worked under these circumstances, until Adina finally stepped in and forced me to delegate. I could afford to hire a few extra hands, but I couldn’t afford to lose any more sleep. My “Stars Align” music video was one of the biggest productions I had ever done, and with some coaxing from Adina, I agreed to hire a director, producer, choreographer, and makeup artist. I remember the first day on set, watching everyone bustle around and feeling so replaced by my own crew. What am I supposed to do? I thought. I’ve since discovered a better balance between being involved and being overwhelmed. If I’m not sewing a cape at midnight, I can spend my time doing the things no one else can do for me.