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I got a very surprising message on social media recently: “This is gonna sound strange, but did you host a show called That’s Atlanta?”
Even odder, perhaps, was my answer: I sure did.
For a couple of seasons in the nineties I was indeed the host of the local game show That’s Atlanta, a gig my talent agent submitted me for right as I was planning to move back to New York City, which meant I flew back to Georgia every six weeks to tape a series of episodes.
I assumed the person who contacted me on Instagram had lived in Atlanta at the time and happened to connect me to the show, so I asked (not entirely tongue-in-cheek), “Were you one of our dozens of viewers?”
No, he said—but he’d recently seen the show featured on game-show titan Wink Martindale’s YouTube channel and wondered if it was me.
Friends, I don’t expect (or even want) you to watch the entire episode they dug up from deep in the vault and shared on the channel—but in the spirit of giving I’m sharing the link if you’d like to have a giggle.
Watching this unearthed time capsule from my younger acting days, there is much I find a bit cringe-y. It was the nineties, as you will quickly see from my enormous hair and even bigger suit jacket and pants and very committal makeup. (The no-makeup look was Not a Thing in the nineties, kids.)
The show was low-budget…as you will quickly see from the $10-and-up prize categories —loosely structured similarly to Jeopardy, but focusing exclusively on Georgia trivia, and featuring a wee little studio audience. It’s—how shall I put this kindly…?—kinda dorky.
As host I think I seem a bit too effusive, and kept a breakneck pace that I worry may have stepped on comments and airtime for the show’s cohost (the wonderful Marcus Dumas) and contestants.
And yet…and yet…even amid all that, I found myself smiling all the way through the episode.
Appreciate Your Evolution as an Artist
Watching the show took me back to that time of my life. Shooting That’s Atlanta was weird and fun and freewheeling, a three-camera show with a live studio audience where I had no script and shows were filmed in real time with no breaks or do-overs.
I got to bring all my experience and training in camera work, television, improvisation, and comedy to hosting it: juggling explaining the rules, interacting off-the-cuff with contestants, learning to watch each camera for the light that signaled which one I needed to look at, and generally keeping the show running smoothly.
It’s easy (really, really easy, actually) to look at it now and just see the janky aspects of it, or laugh at my oh-so-dated appearance, or criticize my perceived shortcomings as host—just as it’s so easy to look back at our earlier writing efforts and find nothing but the faults in them.
But that’s unfair to our past work, our evolution as artists, and the process of creative growth and maturation.
It’s so easy to look back at our earlier writing efforts and find nothing but the faults in it. But that’s unfair to our past work, our evolution as artists, and the process of creative growth and maturation.
Sure, if I look at That’s Atlanta now, from the perspective of three decades having passed in society and culture, in my growth as a speaker/performer, and even in my maturation as a person, it’s easy to see its (and my) shortcomings, to downplay or dismiss or even ridicule it (and me). Given the chance to helm a show like that now, I’d do a lot of things differently: I dress better now (I hope), am more confident, have a better sense of making more space for others to shine.
But then again, as I watched this relic of the past, I saw my twenty-something-year-old self conducting an awful lot of moving parts with a poise and assurance I didn’t realize I had then. I didn’t do so badly, in fact, in bringing the producers’ vision to life and keeping the show moving along fluidly.
I could make fun of this as a silly little hokey job, but at the time it was a hotly contested opportunity in Atlanta, a job I won over a lot of other area actors—not because of connections or favors, but because the producers chose me and what I brought to the show after a grueling series of auditions and callbacks.
For the time That’s Atlanta aired, I had the strange but delightful experience of coming from New York, where I was trying to break into a ferociously competitive acting market and making little headway, to Atlanta, where I was frequently recognized from the show. New York = Big nobody; Atlanta = Minor local celebrity. It was heady and weird and fun.
And honestly, seeing this show again now, I realize that the experience is something I’ve drawn on ever since in speaking engagements, in teaching, in conducting group workshops. It helped me hone my skills and my confidence and ease managing a lot of info and interaction and audiences.
If I look at this tape now, thirty years later, shouldn’t I see how much I’ve grown in my abilities since then—isn’t that normal? If I didn’t it would mean I’d plateau’d in my abilities in the decades since, but this tape shows me that’s not the case.
I watched this episode of this silly, outdated, nearly forgotten little show and I felt nothing but warmth, nostalgia, and pride.
Our Past Work Makes Us the Artists We Are
I think it’s easy and all too common to look at our past work as writers and creatives and feel embarrassed by it—even the books we’ve published, if we’ve been so fortunate. All we see are the shortcomings and stumbles, the mistakes and missteps we may feel we made then and have learned so much better now.
But I encourage you instead to view your past work through a lens of grace and gratitude.
There was a time in the not-distant past when I would have had a hard time doing that with my own previous work—just as you might also.
Many years ago my best friend and I cowrote, coproduced, and codirected (and costarred in!) an independent film together called Back to One. We used to watch screenings of it from the projection booth and heckle it like Mystery Science Theater 3000—despite that those screenings were at respected film festivals where it had been accepted, all over the country and as far as Germany. We couldn’t allow ourselves to appreciate what it was, even as others were doing exactly that—all we saw were its flaws.
Even if your past writing hasn’t been published, hasn’t found representation or readers, hasn’t even left your own computer or drawer for anyone else’s eyes, be proud of that work. Sure, it may not be what you could do now—but I guarantee you it’s at least part of the reason you can do it, just as That’s Atlanta and Back to One were invaluable, essential experience and training ground for me in continuing to grow as an actor and build my career. (And oh, readers, some of the jobs I did as an actor—and was grateful to have!—would make even those look like Ben Hur.)
And I guarantee you that there are elements of it you can find to like, to enjoy, to be proud of—if you take away the filter of self-criticism that too often we filter our work through.
I often say that as writers, as creatives, it’s imperative that we be our own champions and cheerleaders—always. We’re the only ones we can count on to do it, and that’s necessary in a challenging business like publishing.
That doesn’t mean we kid ourselves we’re better than we are at any given stage, or pump up work that we know isn’t as good as we are capable of. It simply means we regard it—all of it—for what it is: a step in the path of developing our skill, our talent, and our career, work we can be proud to have done and learned from.
I’d love to hear about your own experience with revisiting earlier work—what did you think of it? Were you able to read it objectively, and assess and appreciate its merits along with its shortfalls? How do you regard your past work, even the stories and writing that never got all the way there—as part of the process of developing yourself as an artist and career writer, or as “failures”? And can you shift that lens, if the latter, to something more generous and open to its strengths as well as its weaknesses—even if that’s simply how it helped you improve?
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23 Comments. Leave new
A fabulous post and I thought you were great – what fab big hair!
It’s funny how awkward we thought we were and when we look back now, we wish we had that same innocence of not yet knowing – and that skin 🙂
Looking back reminds us of what we had, and how – even now – we should always try and appreciate what we have. Time will march on, crap will happen and we will wish we knew what we had, when we had it!
Ha, thanks, Syl! I’m both amused and gently dismayed that my hairstyle has changed but little since then–mostly just healthier and curlier. And oh, yes, I wish I had appreciated that skin when it was mine. 🙂
My husband always tells me, when I look at older pics and think, “I wish I’d appreciated how I looked then!” that one day I will look at pics of me now and thin k the same thing. It’s a good reminder to do as you said, and appreciate what we have when we have it.
You have had such an interesting past! Here I’ve known you all these years and didn’t know about the film or the show. I thought you were fabulous in the game show and you look almost the same! Hope you had a merry holdiday season and look forward to catching up with you in the new year.
You’re ridiculously kind–thanks, pal. One of these days I’ll tell you some of my hilarious tales from my acting days. They also involve being dangled from cables as a flying mall fairy, jumping fully clothed into a lake for a commercial, and being featured in clips from a film on all kinds of major media even though I had only two small scenes because I was the only English-speaking character.
You said it, Tiffany, GRACE! Took me decades to accept that if I hadn’t been that effusive, dorky klutz, stumbling through my 20’s, I wouldn’t be who I am today. And I kinda like me now. Not to mention all the novel-fodder!
You were adorable and talented – even back then. Believe it!
You’re so right, Laura! I always say I wouldn’t change a thing, even the less good stuff–otherwise I might not be where (and who) I am today. And thank you–you’re very kind. <3
Thanks for ending a turbulent year on an up note, Tiffany. Much needed encouragement. Wishing you the best of everything in 2025.
Thanks, Deborah–and the same to you!
Tiffany, you rocked the game show gig! Thanks for the reminder to embrace our past selves as the foundations of what we’ve achieved—although there are a few mistakes I’d like to forget (curly perms and lag warmers anyone?). Happy New Year and all the best in 2025.
*leg warmers* (A reminder to future self to proofread !)
Oh, I truly committed to fashion in every decade, resulting in some hilarious pics. But I do try to appreciate all of it as essential ingredients for the life I’m living now, which I wouldn’t change. Happy New Year to you as well!
Barb, as one who also rocked a curly perm and leg warmers back in the day, I’m happy to leave the hair behind (my brothers called me Poochie, and they weren’t wrong), but I think leg warmers should make a comeback. I could use a pair right now.
I’m right there with you. Frankly I find leg warmers sexy. And wait long enough–they’ll be back! Everything seems to cycle back into fashion. I’ve learned not to give anything away, but rather put it in a secondary closet until the style comes back into vogue. Seems like it always does.
What a cool time capsule! Thanks for sharing the link. You were very poised.
I am a recently retired freelance graphic designer. I still have my school portfolio from the mid-1980s. Cringingly dated but quite earnest. I don’t show it to many people, nor have I wanted to trash it. I haven’t been ready to look at my earlier writing.
All the best for 2025!
Thanks, Leslie–you’re very generous. 🙂
I love your description of your older work as “earnest.” I think that’s a lovely quality, and an admirable one. Even if that’s all the good we might be able to see in our older work, it’s something to be proud of. I suspect you may find more to enjoy and admire in your old writing than you expect. Best to you in the New Year as well!
I genuinely loved the video. You are so cute, charming, and vivacious, someone having fun and it’s clearly contagious. You’re right, it’s one of many moments in your life that served as a seed that grew into what came later. Given I’m more than old enough to remember those days, you look great in the context of the time.
My oldest works I view the same way. I read them and see the seeds of what came later. I’ll never publish them, but taken as a whole, they contain little of my polish, but all of my potential. Too, there are a lot of great ideas in those stories, fragments that I’ve drawn off of since, but in new, better ways. The book I published in November did so, as have others.
Meanwhile, and I’m not sure when this happened, but the all the drafts I’ve created over the last five years, or longer, I view with an eye for potential. Drafts are children. We don’t criticize their lack of abilities after they’re born. Instead, we (should) nurture and encourage, celebrate their successes while not disparaging their mistakes.
This was the perfect post for the day after Christmas. Thank you!
I love this line–that your older works “contain little of my polish, but all of my potential.” What a great way to look at our early efforts. And I agree–we can often see the germs of our later ideas that come to fruition from our early work. I had the same thought you did about approaching our own past efforts with the same encouragement and positivity with which we’d assess a child’s initial efforts–or anyone else’s, really. It seems so much easier and more intuitive to offer compassion and generosity toward others than it can be to do the same for ourselves, but it’s important that we do. It’s how we make room for growth and experimentation. Thanks for the comment–and your kind remarks about my own early work.
Tiffany, I hope these holidays are your best yet with many more and better to come!!
When I observed my efforts of design in the theatre and many other of the projects I did, my eye went to the faults, the parts I had struggled with, and the parts I was never satisfied with. Friends and acquaintances asked, “why isn’t any of your work framed and hung on your bare walls?”
I managed an answer that deflected that question. The real answer was, I couldn’t bear to look at them because my eye always went to the parts I wasn’t satisfied with.
I don’t know how or when that changed, but I finally hung some of the stuff I had done. I could do it because, in addition to the faults, I could see what worked.
Writing is exactly the opposite. All my first drafts are dreadful, but I can sense something in them that demands to be excavated and rendered reader-worthy. No matter how many passes it takes. I grind away at it until I don’t know what to do to make it any better. Then I ask for help.
The progress I feel is, first, I know what needs to be fixed much sooner, and second, I have an ida of how to do it that aligns with what my teachers (you included) tell me makes stories work. Thank you!
In your wonderful post you mention the competitive environment that acting is. Many years ago, I had the good fortune work a technical rehearsal of a Broadway show. During that rehearsal, nature called and I answered. Scratched into the side of the cabinet in the mens’ was an insight I’ll never forget: “If you are one in a million, there are seven of you in this town.”
I hope 2025 will be everything you want it to be.
Gah, so true, Bob–it’s so easy to see only the flaws. I think that’s even true for many of us in how we regard ourselves–not just our creative efforts. It’s so easy to focus on what we think is “wrong” rather than all the good. I love that you overcame that and finally put up your own work.
I have hung in my house several paintings I did when I was learning acrylics. I only did it for a couple of years and I never got very good, but these paintings, simple as they are, please me, even though I know they’re probably pretty artistically remedial. Maybe it’s easier not to judge myself for them because painting isn’t my milieu or main focus, just a hobby. It’s interesting that you’re somewhat the opposite–that it’s easier for you to see the potential in your writing, even when you aren’t fully happy with it. And to appreciate your progress–I agree that learning to see what’s not working as well as it could and figuring out how to address it (i.e., editing and revision) is a huge, foundational skill we must develop as authors, and doing so means we’re mastering our craft, taking steps in our evolution as writers.
Hilarious bit of bathroom wisdom you quoted, also… Ah, perspective! 🙂 Happy holidays and New Year to you as well, my friend.
Thanks for that blast from the past! The 90s look just like I remember them. And you were charming then too.
I do feel “the cringe” when I read my past work, but I try to feel grateful that my awareness has grown enough to see ways to improve now that I didn’t know about then. And every once in a while, it’s fun to come upon a little nugget and think, “Hey, that wasn’t too bad!”
I remind myself that every word I’ve written is one tiny step in the process; at least I was putting one foot in front of the other. I read somewhere that every writer has to put down a million words of bad writing before they can become good writers. If nothing else, I can read old work and think, “Well, got that out of my system!”
You’re very kind–thanks!
I think the “cringe” is natural–especially once we’ve learned better and know more. But I really like your grace with your past efforts–that you realize they are steps on the path of the artist you are now. That’s evolution and growth, and it’s admirable. And as you say, I’m frequently pleasantly surprised by the nuggets of good I find even in my amateurish early efforts. I try to think of it as I would a child–I’d never bat down their efforts, but encourage them. That’s how we give ourselves permission and room to grow as artists. Thanks for the comment, Heather!
When I read my earlier writing, I tend to be hyper-critical, but this article gives me a more compassionate understanding of the learning curve. Another factor that occurs to me is the role that writing partners, professional lectures/articles, and mentors have in my growth as a writer. I’m overflowing with gratitude for the opportunities I’ve had to hone my skills and give time and energy to an endeavor I love!
Being compassionate with ourselves is so foundational and important. And I love that you bring gratitude to examining your creative past as well! That’s a great point–everything teaches us something, moves us forward (if we allow it to), and taking time to acknowledge and appreciate that can help us see the progress we’re making, Thanks for the comment, Lee!