So Much I Want to Tell You

by Anna Akana

  I wanted to be the lead. I was tired of feeling powerless in my career.

  That’s when I decided to start making my own stuff.

  The first series I wrote was called Riley Rewind, which focused on a time-traveling teen trying to save a classmate from suicide. My partner at the time loved the idea, and we decided to produce it together—he would direct, I would act—and we released it on his channel. The reaction to the series was amazing. Variety named us one of the top Web series of the year. We had over twenty million cumulative views. The fans connected with the concept and really liked the animated elements.

  But Riley was expensive to make, and while we sold it to Netflix and other various video-on-demand services, it still lost money. My partner had paid for it out of his own pocket, and we soon realized that this wasn’t a sustainable business model.

  A few years went by. Auditions came and went. I still did my regular YouTube videos, but nothing as substantial as Riley. It was still the work I was most proud of. I wanted to do more like it. So two years later, in 2014, I decided to take on brand deals in order to raise the money to create more content.

  I was transparent with my audience: I told them I wanted to try something new and I needed money to do it. I put sponsored messaging at the end of my regular comedy videos, and once the paycheck came in, I had a budget.

  The first short I made was Hallucination, a psychological thriller about a girl with schizophrenia who confronts her hallucinations. I debated whether or not to play the lead part. This would be my first time directing a crew, and I wasn’t quite sure how it was going to play out. In the end, I decided to cast an actor—a good friend of mine, Alexis—as the lead.

  My team was skeletal, to put it generously: a producer, a director of photography, a few grips/gaffers, sound. The shoot took a mere day, and it was my first time directing a crew. I was addicted. I loved the energy of being on a set, of framing a shot and talking to actors. My decision to cast Alexis paid off. I had been so busy with directing that acting simultaneously would’ve been impossible. She brought my writing to life beautifully.

  Though I told my audience I was aiming to make one short film a month, once I started I realized how impossible that was. I made six short films total that year—Hallucination, Emergency Call, Afflicted Inc., PREGNAPOCALYPSE, Here She Is, and Miss Earth. Making these was one of the most difficult yet rewarding things I’d ever done. I’d be writing one, in pre-production for another, and editing a third all at the same time. I was constantly in all four stages of production, all the while also maintaining my weekly video deadline.

  At the end of 2014, I got word that Miss Earth was being picked up to series by go90. We’d have a big budget. Bigger than anything I’d ever worked with. I’d be surrounded by a team of traditional writers and directors and crew. And I’d get to be the lead. Miss Earth became Miss 2059. I was the star of a series and an executive producer for the show. We shot for twenty consecutive days, and I got a real look at what it takes to lead a show.

  Making my own stuff was the best thing I ever did for my career. It gave me a sense of control, allowed me the opportunity to get better at my craft, and offered me creative freedom to try new things. If I want to make a short film about every woman in the world getting pregnant by alien invasion, who’s going to stop me? I can walk into audition rooms without feeling like I desperately need to book a part that I don’t actually want. Why should I? I’m making my own stuff. I’m busy as shit giving myself roles I like. I don’t have to take every opportunity thrown my way. I can pick and choose. It’s a beautiful and fortunate place to be, and I am grateful for it.

  More important, making my own films means I don’t have to be trapped by typecasting. I don’t have to play the best friend, the hacker, the overly studious girl terrified of getting a B on a final. If I’m writing and directing and producing and acting and editing and funding and creating the damn thing, no one can tell me where I fit into the narrative. I am the motherfucking narrative.

  That’s why I tell anyone who will listen—especially girls—to make your own stuff. God, please make your own stuff. You don’t need a million subscribers or billions of views. Look at the success of Broad City—those girls started out with a small, low-budget Web series with barely any views. But Amy Poehler saw it, and now it’s one of the best comedies on TV.

  You just need the right person to see your work. And even if that doesn’t happen for a long, long time, you’ll be a better creator for it. You’ll have found and developed your voice, gained knowledge of the technical and creative side of filmmaking, and kept yourself busy doing something you love. It will be hard. It will be frustrating. It will feel like you’re throwing something into a black hole. But will it hurt? No. You have so much to gain and nothing to lose.

  If you want to be the star, create the show. Don’t wait. Make your own opportunities. There’s no better time to start than today.

  The Only Way to Start Is to Start

  I’m constantly asked: “What advice do you have for people who want to do what you do?” and “How do I get started?” I wish I had a great answer to these questions.

  There must be some secret, I think. There must be some life hack or magic word that other artists have stumbled upon. But the truth is, I know that that’s not the case. I know the answer is much simpler than that.

  The answer is the action. If you want to do stand-up, you have to write jokes and get on a stage. If you want to make YouTube videos, you buy a camera and press record. If you want to be an actor, you take acting classes and try to audition for anything you can.

  It’s so simple, but the majority of us overthink it. We waste time researching the thing we want to do, instead of actually doing it.

  I’ve been doing comedy for seven years: stand-up, sketch, improv, videos. I am lucky enough to have had a military father who instilled self-discipline and a solid work ethic in me. My ingrained love for scheduling and organization has also been a godsend. Deciding to do something is the easy part. The hard part is finding the time to do it, and then to keep doing it.

  The best way to combat laziness or discouragement is to create a routine. Your body will soon begin to follow the routine naturally, as will your mind. Most successful people I know have been setting aside time for their work since they were young. The beautiful thing is that it’s never too late to start!

  Don’t underestimate the power of decision. Once you decide to do something, that it’s something you must do, you’ll make time for it. You’ll find a way to start, even if you don’t have professional filming equipment or screenwriting software. All the time you spend wondering how to do something could be spent actually doing it—and getting better at it.

  So the next time you ask yourself “How do I start?” maybe rephrase the question to “When am I going to start?”

  The answer is now.

  It’s Called Work for a Reason

  So let’s say you’ve set aside one hour every day to write. Great! You’ve started. Congratulations.

  Now you sit in front of your computer, staring at a blank page. The entire hour goes by and you’ve written nothing. So you try again, and again, but every time you write something, the words are clunky, awkward, and you can’t figure out what you want to write about.

  You’re doing great.

  I used to believe that creation came easily to artistic geniuses. That everything they made was a masterpiece. Now I know that’s not true.

  No one creates something worthwhile without putting in the work and the time. We can’t passively wait around for inspiration to hit or for the muse to show up. So even if you sit in front of the computer for hours, with nothing to show for it, don’t get discouraged. Keep up the habit. Making time for creativity in your day will also make space for it in your mind. It’ll keep it at the top of your subconscious to-do list while you’re going about the rest of your day. Eventually your muse will appear.

  If you’re feeling extra motivated
, making results a part of your to-do list instead of a time commitment also helps. So instead of saying that you’ll write for an hour, you can always say you’ll write a minimum of five hundred words. They might be the shittiest five hundred words you’ve ever written, but you’ll be five hundred closer to some you like.

  Ideas Are a Dime a Dozen

  I find it strange when people ask where ideas come from. As if Stephen King is going to point to a well in the ground and say, “There. All my ideas come from there.”

  Ideas aren’t that hard to find. They mostly come from stimulation and thinking. Read books, watch TV, explore the world around you. Take walks and think about bringing two seemingly random concepts together. Be observant: pay attention to how people interact and to what’s going on in the world.

  Write “what if” lists. These lists are where most of my short film ideas have come from. Hallucination: What if a girl with schizophrenia confronted her hallucination? Afflicted, Inc.: What if personal afflictions like anorexia or bipolar disorder were actually saleswomen from an alternate universe? Playing “what if” can generate thousands of ideas, and eventually you’ll stumble onto one that will resonate.

  What’s more important than knowing where ideas come from is knowing when an idea is bad. I’ve wasted months of my life writing novels that have terrible premises. Schizophrenic Lesbian in Space was a 400,000-word odyssey that I worked on every day for National Novel Writing Month.

  But even though an initial idea might be bad, that doesn’t mean that it can’t become something good. Schizophrenic Lesbian in Space eventually transformed into the pilot for Miss Earth, a tale of twins who are swapped in an intergalactic competition. It’s Miss Congeniality meets The Hunger Games, set in space. It’s by far one of my best projects to date.

  Keep track of your ideas—the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that make no sense. You can always change them to suit your needs. Yesterday’s cringeworthy idea may become the premise for a fantastic series tomorrow.

  It’s Okay if It Sucks

  First drafts. Early videos. There will come a day when you throw up your hands and wonder if anything you make is ever going to not suck. Will anything be any good?

  I still feel like most of what I put out could be better. Occasionally I make a video and contemplate whether or not to upload it because I hate it so much. But I’ve learned that it’s all a part of the process. Not everything you make can be gold. But every terrible thing you make will get you one step closer to making something better.

  Whenever I make something, I try to learn at least one thing from the process. Just one thing that will make the next thing better. There is always room for improvement. It’s easy to obsess over the fact that what you’ve made is not good, but you’ll be better off if you try to learn from the experience. Analyze why something sucks and how you can do better, rather than focusing on the negative.

  I knew I wasn’t the strongest writer when I began creating short films. I knew I needed to put a lot of work in if I was going to get any better. I also began to notice that whenever I directed and acted in something, my acting suffered. I was too focused on directing to fully commit to the character.

  I’ve found that sometimes it’s helpful to give yourself permission to suck. It just takes the pressure off. For example, when I was doing improvisation, we used to play a game called Bad Improv. It’s a warm-up exercise where everyone is allowed to break all the rules and be terrible improvisers. You can run into another person’s scene screaming “I’m a fucking ghost!” and you’ll be winning at Bad Improv. The thing is, Bad Improv can be pretty funny. It’s a good reminder that sometimes you can get distracted by the “right” way to do something.

  So the next time you cringe at something you’ve created, don’t shut down. First, take a breath. Try to detach yourself from it emotionally. Assess your work analytically. Become aware of your weaknesses and focus on improving them—that’s the only way you’ll get stronger. And the stronger you get, the more resilient you’ll become.

  Fail More

  All successful people have a trail of failures behind them. We’re a culture that shames failing, but trial and error is an essential part of any process (and life in general). We learn from our mistakes: from experimenting and attempting and trying. There’s nothing wrong with failing—in fact, it’s a good sign. You’re one step closer to succeeding.

  I had a callback to a Melissa McCarthy movie. I was sitting in the waiting room with the other girls, listening to the explosion of laughter that would come from the audition room. I was nervous. Melissa McCarthy was in there! And she was going to read her character’s lines with me! I was also nervous because a notable comedy casting director, Allison Jones, had brought me straight into a producer session for this role (meaning it was the first time I was reading the material out loud for the producers; normally you have an initial audition before a callback with them). I always get nervous when I’m brought straight into a callback. I like the initial audition process. You get a chance to read the character with the casting director and be guided by them. By the time you get to the callback, you have a better hold on your performance.

  But this was a role I hadn’t read for. I had no idea who this character was, and I was a little confused about what made her funny. When it was my turn, I went in the room and did my best.

  And I failed so fucking hard.

  I wasn’t funny. There were no laughs. I could feel myself slowly crashing and burning in front of everyone’s eyes. I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. Here I was, in front of comedy legend Melissa McCarthy, and I wasn’t even remotely funny. I left the audition and banged my head against the wheel of my car. I beat myself up the whole way home.

  Then there was the time I had to pitch a comic book to a studio in hopes of getting a graphic novel under my belt. I hate pitching. For those of you who don’t know, pitching is basically telling a story, conversationally, to an executive. You describe the movie or TV show or comic book and its characters and what the story looks like from beginning to end. I hate it. I’m terrible at communicating stories in person. I skip ahead and explain things badly. I’m always tempted to just read my notes, but people want you to pitch with your voice and charisma, and to lead them with your energy. Unfortunately, it’s not my strong suit. I’m bad at talking to people I like at parties. It’s going to take me a long time to get good at talking to executives who can fund my projects.

  So there I was, in front of the executives, rambling on about the world and the story and the characters. Finally I got to the end. I felt good about it. I’d practiced this pitch out loud at home for an hour. I’d even recorded myself on my phone and listened to it, noting where I’d improvised nicely and where I was stale.

  Finally the executive said, “I’m so confused.”

  Confusion is worse than someone not liking your story. Because they don’t even understand what the hell your story is about.

  While neither of these experiences was fun, they are ones that I’ll live with and learn from. I know what I did wrong, so hopefully next time I can do it right. Failure is so many wonderful things; it’s motivation to do better next time, a learning opportunity to see what you did wrong, and ultimately the proof that you at least tried. So many people are afraid of failure that it stops them from ever trying. Instead of feeling ashamed over failures, we should embrace them. They’re a necessary evil. And though I will still cringe in embarrassment each time one of these memories is brought to the surface, I still give myself a little pat on the back for the attempt, and I silently vow to do better next time.

  You Are Not Your Art

  Artists have a tendency to value themselves in relation to their work. If I’m creating content that people love, I’m happy. If I have a video that isn’t well received, I’m destroyed. This is a very unproductive and distracting way to work. Though I haven’t fully mastered it yet, I’m becoming better at detaching my self-worth from what I create.
/>   I am not my art, I tell myself.

  I am not this two-minute video about how much I hate the phrase “over my dead body.” I am not this rap song about how I treat my boyfriend when I’m hungry. I am not this book.

  Instead, I try to find my value in what I’m doing for people and the world. In who I am in my everyday life. In what my actions say about the kind of person I am. My life is defined by what I do in the here and now—not by what I create.

  Develop a Thick Skin

  I’ve had a complicated relationship with trolls. I used to read each and every single comment on my videos, looking for advice that might help me with my next video. But the majority of comments on YouTube are extreme. Some people unconditionally love what you do or who you are and will support you no matter what. Though it’s a fantastic feeling, it doesn’t necessarily help you improve your work. Then there are the “haters,” as they’re called. These people insult your appearance, work, family, and self-worth.

  These hateful comments used to get to me. I’ve cried. I’ve responded. I’ve fought with some and ignored others. I’ve tried engaging in meaningful and constructive conversations. I’ve tried one-upping their insults. I’ve tried not looking at the comments until a video is days old, when the urge to respond to comments has lost most of its power.

  Every artist has to decide how to deal with the criticism. I used to indulge my self-pity and self-hatred by looking myself up on Reddit and crying when I found what was waiting for me there. But now I’ve learned not to read comments if I’m having a bad day.