Dear Matt
Four questions (and answers) I've been avoiding
Dear friend,
Whether you’ve been reading The Fourth Wall for ten months, ten weeks, or you somehow landed here ten minutes ago, my hope is that you can sense I’m trying to show up honestly. Not perfectly. Just honestly.
And this week, I wanted to take that one step further.
Over the past year, people have asked me some real questions. They came through emails, DMs, classes, stage doors, late-night texts, coffee dates with friends. They stretched me. They lingered. They made me confront things I’ve avoided in myself.
So this week, instead of writing a big essay or a grand thesis, I wanted to try something simpler and scarier: answering four of those questions as honestly as I can—without pretending I have perfect clarity, or perfect perspective, or perfect anything.
I’m going to get some of it wrong. I already know that. But I also know these are the conversations I keep circling back to, and maybe they’re ones you’ve been circling too.
Shall we?
Am I allowed to want stability and to pursue a creative life? Or is that cheating?
I’m always struck by how often “stability” and “a creative life” get framed as opposites. As if they can’t coexist—or if they do, it’s only for the chosen few: movie stars, Broadway leads, music moguls.
But what if stability isn’t the enemy of a creative life? What if it’s one of the conditions that lets creativity breathe?
Most of the time, “stability” really means financial stability. Fair. And the cultural script says a creative life is inherently not a money-maker.
If we take that at face value—even just for the sake of argument—I think there’s something to learn from Elizabeth Gilbert’s (imho) masterpiece Big Magic.
She lays out a path for those of us who haven’t “hit it big” yet: don’t quit your day job. Instead, weave creativity into the life you already have. Consistently. Sustainably. It’s both a practice of gratitude for the present and a form of devotion to your creative spirit.
Financial stability isn’t selling out. It’s paying rent so you can keep making stuff.
And wanting something different isn’t bad—but wanting can cast a long shadow over what’s already working in your life.
When that friction between stability and creative fulfillment shows up for me, I treat it as a signal. Energy looking for an outlet. A nudge to start something small.
A newsletter, for instance.
I don’t need it to be life-changing. I just need it to get me moving—present, grounded, and painting a little outside the lines.
Wanting stability doesn’t make you less of an artist. If anything, stability gives the art (and the artist) room to grow.
How do I know if I’m creating art or just making content? What’s the difference?
I’ll cut right to the chase: I don’t think the label matters.
If what you’re making gets you present—if it shifts your state, helps you process something, gets you out of your head, or drops you back into your body—who cares what it’s called?
Filming a dance trend, writing a song no one will hear, running lines, doodling, voice-memoing a new lyric, taking a photo that accidentally feels profound, journaling in your notes app, moodboarding on Pinterest, playing with lighting in your bedroom—if any of it wakes you up, it counts.
Creativity is both a muscle and a miracle. It’s the practice of sharing something within us and letting something bigger move through us. Art and content are both generative in that way.
The only time the distinction matters is when the thing you’re making starts to feel like it’s taking from you.
Not in the “good workout” way. In the “this is chipping away at my spirit” way.
If something—art or content, highbrow or silly, polished or chaotic—starts hollowing you out instead of filling you in? It’s not worth your time. Life is too short to trade your lifeforce for an audience.
What I’m seeking, always, regardless of what I’m making, is presence. To feel challenged, or curious, or delighted. To feel alive.
So how do you know if it’s art or content? You don’t. And honestly? You don’t need to.
The better question is: how does it make you feel while you’re making it?
If the answer is “here,” “awake,” or “more myself,” you’re doing it right.
Does making your own work actually lead anywhere, or is it just wishful thinking and self-imposed homework?
Short answer? Yes, it leads somewhere. Always. Just not always where you expect.
There’s this fantasy that making your own work immediately opens doors, lands you an agent, or gets you cast in the thing you’re dreaming of. And sure, sometimes it happens like that. But most of the time, the return isn’t linear. Or immediate. Or obvious.
Here’s what I’ve learned: making your own work is less about outcomes and more about orientation. It points you toward yourself. It keeps you awake. It gives you momentum when the industry won’t.
I’ve made a lot of things that didn’t “go” anywhere on paper. Red carpet videos. Weird sketches. Tiny projects. Conversations. Experiments.
And yet: those things did lead somewhere. Creation breeds movement. Movement breeds possibility.
And even when a project doesn’t “hit,” it still changes you. It sharpens your taste. It clarifies what you want. It reveals your voice. It builds the muscle that whispers, I can make something—which is the antidote to almost every artistic crisis.
But here’s the part people skip over: making your own work only becomes self-imposed homework when you start doing it to appease the algorithm instead of your curiosity.
If it’s draining you, flattening you, or turning your creativity into obligation—that’s not “making your own work.” That’s just performing productivity. You can opt out of that.
The projects that count are the ones that feel like little sparks. The ones that challenge you or delight you or just light you up in some way. Those are the ones that create real momentum.
So is it wishful thinking? Sometimes. But wishful thinking is the birthplace of almost every good idea we have.
And does it lead somewhere? Yes. Not always where you think. Not always on your timeline. But somewhere deeper, wider, and more honest than if you’d waited for permission.
If your work is moving you, it’s already moving you forward.
How do I know if I’m chasing a dream or just clinging to an identity?
I think this question shows up when the dream and the identity have gotten tangled—when the thing you’ve wanted for so long quietly becomes the thing you’re afraid to let go of.
Underneath it isn’t ambition; it’s fear. Fear of outgrowing a dream you built your life around. Fear that letting go would make the past feel wasted. Fear that wanting something different means you’re lost or inconsistent. Fear of what people will think if you pivot. And maybe the deepest fear: who you are without the label you’ve been wearing for years.
For me, the difference between the two comes down to the why. A dream is something you’re reaching toward. An identity is something you’re trying not to lose. A dream can evolve as you evolve. An identity asks you to stay who you were.
When I’m trying to sort it out, I ask myself: If no one knew I wanted this—if no one was watching—would I still want it? If the answer is yes, it’s usually a dream. If the answer is no—or “I’m not sure”—I might be holding on because the identity feels safer than the uncertainty underneath.
That’s not a flaw. It’s human. We all outgrow versions of ourselves. And you don’t owe your past self lifelong loyalty. You’re allowed to want differently. You’re allowed to evolve, even if other people don’t fully understand it. You’re allowed to disappoint the imaginary jury in your head.
A dream changes with you; an identity resists change. So when you’re unsure, look at the fear beneath the wanting. Are you moving toward something? Or holding on because you’re scared to let go?
Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t chasing the dream you had—it’s admitting the dream has changed, and letting yourself change with it.
One last thing…
This week’s newsletter ended up being an interesting exercise for me—and, no surprise, it made me think about the questions I’m asking and who I bring them to.
I’ve realized the people I trust most—the directors and creative collaborators I love, the friends I go to for advice—aren’t the ones who claim to know everything. They’re the ones who say, “I don’t know, but let’s look at it together.” Their POV feels like an offering, not a verdict.
That’s the energy I want for The Fourth Wall.
So if there’s a question you want me to dig into someday—big, small, personal, philosophical, messy—hit reply and send it over.
Consider this an open invitation to wonder out loud with me.
See you next week ♥️
—Matt