“You’ve gotta hustle.”
—Me, pre-Toronto relocation, circa 2010

As a self-employed artist living in the Big Smoke, I now totally get how this small piece of advice can feel more like a curse than sage counsel. Until recently I’ve resented the sentiment; it seemed too hollow and unauthentic—scampering from place to place chasing down jobs, shows, and hot new event listings. I reasoned, “Here’s something no one’s thought of before… I’ll write my own rules to this rat-race. Surely my grounded personality and quiet confidence would get me by in the long run.”

Here’s the thing about the aforementioned Hustle: you’ve gotta work your long game. If you’re one to get easily bogged down by minor setbacks and late streetcars, it’s a lifestyle that will prove a challenge. But once you’re in it, a motor kicks in that you can feel underneath everything you’re doing. Rather than playing a constant game of overwhelmed catch-up, things start to happen and the walls fall away. And slowly, you start to love it. For me, that meant getting really honest about what wasn’t working in my life. Mary Oliver showed up and chimed in: “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?”

That changed everything. It upped the stakes and made me choose my own life over the one I felt I needed to live to get by. Call it spring fever but lately things have really started to click—and I like to imagine it’s due to the conscious choices I’ve made to do and think what feels good. Can it be that simple? I identified the need to quit telling myself the same story, which had been chronicled so far as the existence of a poor & struggling artist. For years I’ve been buying into the understanding that I have to make huge life sacrifices for the sake of my capital-A Art and as the saying goes: the stories we tell ourselves are the ones that become our reality. To be clear, I’m not disregarding how hard it is to stay financially afloat as an artist, student, or self-employed contract worker or trying to imply that it’s in any way easy. But in order to get ahead, sometimes you need get out of your own damn way and change the personal narrative. And let me tell you, it’s a worthwhile pursuit. A few months ago I found this letter Noel Coward wrote to Marlene Dietrich back in 1952, and if you need a small wake-up call give it a go.

But you need to really, and truly, get a move on. A move on that you can’t accomplish from your kitchen nook. Believe me! I’ve tried. Even though applying for jobs, auditions and internships is a reality of the multiple-revenue lifestyles we lead, the hustle isn’t found in front of a computer, or on your Facebook newsfeed. It’s in connection. It’s in discovering who inspires you, taking risks by reaching out, and HUNTING THEM DOWN. Which will seem so phony and bogus at first. But I’ve learned that most people—artists especially—are incredibly generous with their time, and usually more than happy to lend a hand when asked for advice. Remember, they’ve been there too. Once you get over the awkward-first-date feel, you get to sit across from someone and hear their stories; meanwhile showing your true self and expressing the grounded personality you wanted to all along. The sentiment “it’s not what you know, but who you know” feels less of a cliché and more like a community that wants to support, guide, and provide encouragement along the way.

So I’ve been running around the city. Fabulously (I like to think), scatteredly, amok: shoes and almonds flying out of my cat backpack, into traffic to grab the last streetcar—for the next 35 frigging minutes. And it feels exhilarating. I’m over choosing to stay safely indoors, protecting my fragile ego by not taking risks. I’m going to apply myself in ways I never thought I could. I’m loving Toronto. Loving the hustle and the vibrancy of it—the shows, art, theatre, music, food, parks n’pals.

And though there are days I get a real hankering for my prairie home; the simple starkness of the horizon where it meets the sky, and the gentle grounded nature of its communities, it turns out I’m loving parts of this crazy city, too.

Does this mean I’m a Torontonian, after all?

Don’t tell my mom.