Last Tuesday my neighbor knocked on my door and asked for an autograph. Not for herself — for her daughter, who "saw my light." She meant my ring light. The giant glowing circle visible through my window at all hours. I signed a napkin. I am nobody's celebrity, but in this building I am the light lady, and honestly? I'll take it.
Welcome to my studio — also known as my living room
People picture brand shoots in lofts with exposed brick. Mine happen six feet from my couch, between my laundry pile (strategically out of frame) and my cat, who has walked through exactly 214 takes. I know the number because I counted during an editing spiral at midnight. He has never once looked at the camera. He is the true star and he knows it.
My ring light is named Big Bertha. My tripod has a wobble I've learned to love. My "sound booth" is a blanket fort I build over my head for voiceovers, and yes, I have absolutely been discovered mid-fort by a delivery driver. We don't talk about it.
Take 47 — "hey guys!"
The walls in this building are thin. Paper thin. My neighbor once told me she knows my intro by heart — "hey guys, welcome back" — because she's heard all 47 takes of it through the wall. Take 12 is always the best one and I never use it because I convince myself take 30 will be better. It is never better. Take 12 was the one. I have learned nothing.
And here's the thing I actually want to say: this job is ridiculous and I love it so much it makes my chest hurt. I get to be loud in my living room, talk about moisturizer like it matters (it does), and call it work. Somebody pays me actual money for this. My 16-year-old self, who was too shy to order pizza on the phone, would simply not believe it.
So if you hear me through the wall tomorrow yelling about hyaluronic acid for the 48th time — mind your business, Deborah. I'm working.
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