I know I’m not the only one who feels professional envy. Another friend once told me she can’t look at the trades because it made her sick to her stomach to read about other people getting deals. Ouch. But I get it, we all do.

Much as we’d like to be happy for those who are doing well, there can be a dark underbelly to it: that it somehow makes us think we’re not doing well, or at least not well enough. But the question to ask is: what is well enough?

Last week I was asked this very question. After squirming for a few seconds, I confessed, “Never.” (And perhaps for the first time in a long time, I was totally and completely honest.)

“Ay,” as Hamlet might say, “there’s the rub.”

The jealousy will not be solved by climbing more rungs on the ladder. You’ll always be jealous of those whom you think have climbed a rung or two more. And if you reach the toppermost poppermost, whatever that is, you’ll likely be pissed off that you’re not God.

Best to learn to be happy for yourself and others right here, right now. It might feel awkward, letting go of frustrations, disappointments and angers, but it’s probably the surest way up that ladder anyway… at very least, it’s a lot more pleasant a journey.

As the years rolled by, I started to see the error of my strategy. (Not to mention that the years rolled by and I’d barely been north of Burbank). Operating in a state of total availability is nice in theory, but it comes at a heavy price, and ultimately does more harm than good.

The human mind and body require rest in order to perform. We have a basic physical need for down time, and a basic mental need for a change of scenery. Failure to attend to these things means burn-out, which means you’ll be playing at half-speed, or worse, just crash altogether.

There’s a sinister feeling amongst actors that we’re always at the industry’s beck and call. It can feel undignified at best, humiliating at worst. Moreover, by relinquishing too much, we lose the very elements that make us appealing in the first place, those attractive qualities of strength, courage and the desire to make our world and lives something extraordinary.

So take breaks as needed. Go away from time to time. The industry will still be around when you get back.

Actors have to create their own material. Not only is it the most likely way for us to get the parts we want, but the industry is expecting it now. Yes, there’s the old joke that “The good news is that now anybody can make movies. The bad news is that now anybody can make movies.”

Okay, fine. Now that you’ve stopped laughing, let’s move on.

In sports we hear about how “the position has been re-defined,” meaning, say, that a football quarterback can no longer just be a passer, he has to be a scrambler, too. The same is true for actors. We can no longer just be actors, we have to be producers as well. It’s part of what it means to be an actor today.

And it’s not that the technology is here at last, it’s that the technology was here ten years ago. Now it’s in your pocket. Last week I made a short film on my iPhone with some very cool apps while lazing in bed. It had effects, transitions, music and titles. While it lacked a compelling narrative (panning across my bedroom a few times does not a story make… unless maybe you’re French and it’s 1966), it was nevertheless a completed film able to be posted, tweeted, YouTube’d and Vimeo’d, also from the comfort of my bed.

Until the machine comes along that makes movies directly from your thoughts, it’s not going to get much easier. So do it. Create your own material. The position has been re-defined.

As the old saying goes, “When would now be a good time?”

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A little bulb went off in my head. Actors today are trained toward playing character, and we do, in fact, often neglect the scene. There’s little hiding from this.

This is especially true in film and television, where more attention is paid to character elements like wardrobe, stylings, mannerisms, look, haircuts, habits and catchy one-liners, than if a scene is any good in its entirety. Whether something is advanced in the emotional make-up of the character, or whether we learn something beyond simple story points has been rendered nearly irrelevant. It’s a race between plot and character, scene be damned.

The scene, as it were, is nearly dead, rendering our most basic criticism of them as to whether they’re too long or too short. “Too long” means we got the plot point and would like the narrative to move on, “too short” means there wasn’t enough time to get our needed dose of character.

I have an audition coming up, and as I sat in class I ran my lines in my head, searching for whether I’d done any work on the scene. I had not. Several choices about vocal pitch, clothing and a nervous twitchiness had been established, but there was little in my preparation that answered the question, “So, what is this about? What’s going on? What are the points A and B here?” I had no idea, and here I was, a professional actor, studying with a celebrated teacher, suddenly clueless about the basics of my own craft.

But I felt as though I’d been mercifully spared another round of an anguished audition later. I could go back and do my work, properly. If I do the job, the rest follows, and it’s the attention to scene that will separate a mediocre read from a good one. Whether anybody in the room knows what’s going on doesn’t matter. Something will be felt, the way good stitching holds a bad together even as we desire only to feel the smoothness of the leather.

And at any rate, nearly all the classes out there are still being advertised as “scene study,” are they not?

Before anybody think that I say this in search of compliments and pats on the back, let me add this: I’m happy to know this.

I came home after a challenging class at The Actors Center one day and was forced to concede that I couldn’t do exercises I once was able to. But rather that get down about it, I was elated that I was back at work on the craft, ready to challenge myself anew. For years I spent my time doing exactly that which I was already capable of doing. In the process I made a few bucks and padded my credits, but in truth I was growing smaller and smaller as an artist, as a creative, and as a man. And it all became clear to me during a five minute exercise in front of my peers.

In the last few days the phrase, “God helps those who help themselves” has been rattling about my brain, despite my not being too convinced about the existence of any god. But that’s another matter. Indeed, I’ve tried to live by a similar creed in recent times, jettisoning a flawed pattern of victimization for a more active role in the creation of my life, and the results have been startling. Never would I have imagined that the discovery of weakness and failings could be a good thing.

We who choose to work in a public forum, offering our faces and bodies for entertainment, tread a thin line on a daily basis. The delicate balance can easily tip to the irascible habit of bemoaning the fools and the ignorant all around us. But there is no shelter there. Only a feeding frenzy of bitterness.

Actors beware. The craft is a muscle. It will atrophy quickly. You may be working, and you may be earning a good sum for your labors, but the muses are fickle mistresses and like to be seduced regularly. I suggest you buy some flowers and champagne the first chance you get. You may enjoy what happens next.