At first, all I wanted was to make a living with my art. I felt as though I was asking for the world—and according to the stats, that’s exactly what I was doing. I left everything that I knew in Tejas, came to the city and worked a myriad of crummy minimum wage jobs back to back by day while doing my art by night. Eventually, my art paid all the bills. Wow, I thought. I’ve made it. I was elated. But I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t like it when they wouldn’t call me to audition and when they did call, I didn’t like what they were offering. I didn’t want to do any more regional performances of twenty-year old black musicals that no one seemed to be particularly interested in. That was someone else’s "character," someone else’s ideas, someone else’s performance. I had had my own ideas—lots of them. Instinctively, I knew that this put me way ahead of the curve, even if I wasn’t sure of exactly what to do with them.

Some people don’t have their own ideas. Some people don’t fully develop their talents. Some people have their own ideas but they haven’t got the guts or the nerve to do what they have to do, to realize them. Some people would rather fantasize about success. And happiness. And whatever else they want. Some people are there to facilitate someone else’s ideas. Some people don’t have any ideas or talent but there they are—rich and famous and everything. Some people are perfectly happy whiling away the years in the chorus of one Broadway show after another, tra-la-la-la-la. Or doing the same show/tv series for ever, tra-la-la-la-la. And you know what? After awhile, some people settle.

Oddly enough, I am none of those people.

The thought that unfurled itself in my head and continues to flail defiantly in the high winds of unemployment, industry stagnation and (stereo)typecasting is: "I don’t replicate, I originate." So that’s what I did. I wrote my own one-person shows. I formed my own band. I wrote my own music. I started my own company. This need to originate art that’s impactful, coupled with an ever-present urge to constantly improve is the one-two punch that keeps me alive creatively. Usually, I’m flying by the seat of my pants but hey—at least I know how. It’s something that everyone has to do eventually, no matter how they make a living. I’m glad I got good at it, early on. Now when there’s a "catastrophe," I can handle it. That’s priceless.

How can I impact people with my art if I can’t reach them? I want my music to be heard my as many people as possible. Am I asking for the world? Probably. But that’s what I usually do.

Playing an Off Off Broadway house that seats maybe 80 people is a wonderful thing. But it isn't enough anymore—even in the best case scenario, when the entire run sells out and everyone makes some money and the critics like me. I mean, yeesh. I can remember when that was all I ever wanted. And don’t get me wrong, I still want that. But I’m not satisfied. I want more. I guess that's what happens when dreams come true for me. I dream more dreams.