The Performance of Self
Becoming Ourselves, One Act at a Time
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“Here, it is possible to be two things at once. Not a splitting of personality or psyche, but the natural superimposition of one mind on top of another mind. In the space between them, a performance becomes possible.” ― Katie Kitamura, Audition
Performance is treated as a dirty word. As if pretending to be brave, competent, or charismatic makes us frauds. But what if performance isn’t a betrayal of our true self—what if it’s the way we become who we are and who we want to be?
I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately and how it’s shaped in the telling. To others, yes, but also to ourselves. We become the roles we take on: writer, daughter, friend, partner. These aren’t lies. They’re curated expressions of self. Crafted, yes, but no less real for it. Performance isn’t fake. It’s human.
“You observe yourself, you watch yourself act, you hear yourself speak, a line that is articulated and then articulated again, and the meaning that is produced is at once entirely real—as it is experienced on stage, as it is experienced by the audience—and also the predictable result of your craft, the choices you have made, the control that cedes freedom.” ― Katie Kitamura, Audition
“Fake it till you make it,” is the age-old adage, and there’s a quiet persistent truth there. In pretending to be confident, I am brave. In sitting down to write, even when the doubt is loud, I am a writer. These performances aren’t masks I wear to deceive others. They’re tools I use to build myself.
I think of the moments that have changed me. Starting a business when I was only pretending to feel ready. Writing a comedic mystery when I was new to the genre but had an idea I couldn’t stop talking about. Putting on hiking books with theatrical enthusiasm in the Dolomites. None of these were lies. They were performances of a self I wanted to be—and somewhere in the doing, I became her.
“There are always two stories taking place at once, the narrative inside the play and the narrative around it, and the boundary between the two is more porous than you might think, that is both the danger and the excitement of the performance.” ― Katie Kitamura, Audition
For me, every social interaction begins with a performance. Before I meet friends or go to a party, anxiety insists I’m not interesting enough. Not smart enough. Not enough. And yet, five minutes into the evening, I’m laughing. Joking. Being the person I thought I couldn’t be. The performance becomes the reality.
But here’s the truth: If I hadn’t performed, hadn't pushed through the discomfort of “what if” then I might have stayed stuck. I would have said no to the party, the plane jump, the pitch meeting, every opportunity to meet my closest friends. I might never have started the business. I might never have started writing again. Performance doesn’t just open doors—it drags me through them when I was too scared to walk on my own. If I had waited to feel ready, I’d still be waiting.
This happens in my work too. Before a big meeting with a potential new client, or even back in my finance days, I’d psych myself up. “Turn it on,” I’d remind myself. Not fake it. Access it. The part of me that could be commanding, prepared, and sharp. It’s not a lie, just a version of me I need to call forward.
That’s the nuance we rarely allow ourselves: that we can contain contraindications without being inauthentic. I am both confident and insecure. Creative and blocked. Social and introverted. Aware and sometimes helplessly unaware. To let one side win would be to silence the other, and I need all of them to keep going.
“We had been playing parts, and for a period—as long as we understood our roles, for as long as we participated in the careful collusion that is a story, is a family, told by one person to another person—the mechanism held. But the deeper the complicity, and the longer it sustained, the less give there is, the more binding and unforgiving the contract, and in the end it took very little for the whole thing to collapse.” ― Katie Kitamura, Audition
This is the risk, of course. That the performance hardens into a role we feel obligated to maintain. That the curated self becomes a cage. But that’s not inevitable. If we stay conscious, if we observe ourselves as Kitamura suggests, we can remain flexible. We can rewrite. Recast.
Still, I’d be lying if I said performance was always empowering. Sometimes it’s exhausting and I can feel utterly drained from being “on.” Especially in spaces like social media or work where the line between persona and person blurs, where performance is expected by vulnerability is punished or misunderstood. I’m still learning how to be honest on Instagram in teh way I’ve allowed myself to be on Substack. I’ve had moments where I wonder, is this really me? Or just the most palatable version of me? And that question can be paralyzing.
But here’s the truth I keep coming back to: it’s not performance or truth. It’s performance as truth. Who I am is shaped in part by the things I do and the way I act and by the roles I reach for, practice, and embody. I don’t perform to be fake, I perform to keep becoming.
Writing, for me, is another kind of performance. I step into characters, let them speak through me. But sometimes, in their voices, I hear my own echoed back. Unmistakable. I never set out to write autobiographically, but my fears, longings, even my humor, leak onto the page. Performance reveals truth.
“Like all women, I had once been expert at negotiating the balance between the demands of courtesy and the demands of expectation. Expectation, which I knew to be a debt that would at some point have to be paid, in one form or another.” ― Katie Kitamura, Audition
Expectation is a debt, and we all pay it differently. As women, we perform politeness, capability, control. But there’s also power in that performance. Control is a seductive, slippery thing. It promises safety and predictability. But it’s also a cage.
This year, my biggest lesson has been to surrender. I have no control. I can choose a direction, but the path curves out of sight. Letting go of control and stepping into the unknown is its own performance, I think. One that requires imagination and trust.
Because sometimes, we only discover who we are by pretending first. Curating. Trying things on that we’re not sure will fit until we look in the mirror and realize—it’s ours now.
We are not static. Authenticity is not fixed. It’s a moving target and a composition in progress. The roles we take on aren’t illusions; they are blueprints, invitations, experiments. Performance doesn’t make us fake.
It makes us possible.
Audition begs to be paired with a red. Fight me on it. I’m thinking the Munjebel Rosso Classico, made from the Nerello grape. The wine has structure and elegance, feels light (the book physically feels light, lol), but volcanic and slow burn, a bit like the unraveling of a volatile character. The winemaker, Frank Cornellison, believes in putting terroir above all else and this shines through. Munjebel comes from Mount Etna, both in region and in name, which aligns well with Audition, which mirrors Etna’s restraint and eruption.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. the grand news is that I finished my revision of Susie Sweetheart while in Provence and it’s a manuscript I am immensely proud of. While revising, there were several times I even laughed out loud. I don’t think I’m that funny generally, so this is high praise to myself.
The sad news is that the agent who requested (is this even the right word?) the ‘revise & resubmit’ ultimately passed with the absolute nicest no in history. [NB: The agent is on Substack and I would have linked her but didn’t want to blow up her spot.] Her rejection included the belief that I have what it takes to get published, several referals, and the comment that I’m taking big risks with this.
In actuality, I didn’t realize what I was writing was risky. I was writing the story I wanted to read. Sure, I knew it’s a big time genre blend and there are some sensitive topics in there for an otherwise humorous book… so maybe that’s the risk?
It was a rough day, filled with melodrama on my end and the all-knowing feeling that, despite this news, I was going to keep going. I guess I’m a masochist? I believe in this story, I believe it belongs on shelves, and I believe that readers will love Susie, Nan, Gabi, and Rafa as much as I do.
Separately, long-time beta reader and writing friend, Bianca, has joined Substack, If you’re writing a novel and/or want to follow along her process of writing an entire novel this summer, check out her pub:
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Nova Scotia House by Charlie Porter - this is still not available in the US but will be come fall. It’s a spiraling account of grief and trying to find the other side. 4.5 stars for me.
Deep Cuts by Holly Brickley - why are people rating this low on goodreads? My dudes! It’s about a single-minded passionate person and their greatest love: music. You are here, on Substack reading about this person’s (me, my) greatest passions. Wine and books. The line writing is beautiful and occassionally funny too.
Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid - to the people who didn’t love this, I think you’re letting the beginning weigh down your opinion. Again passion, drive, and what you would sacrifice for your dreams and the people you love. If you saw my reel, this book made me ugly cry on the plane. That ending?
Babel by RF Kuang - yup. Still reading. But
A Vow of Embers by Sariah Wilson - a sequel I’m stoked about. I had preordered it and I forgot about it. When I opened the package it was the BEST surprise.
Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico - short listed for the International Booker Prize. Excited!
Please consider clicking the little heart on this essay—your engagement helps more than you think! I’d love to hear from you if this essay made you ~feel~ something, have read a book I recommended, or think I’m wildly off about my wine pairings. 🍷
xx,
bb
Such a good read! And I KNOW Susie belongs on shelves (willing to put large sums of money on this) & that your time is soooo close.
Thanks @Bianca