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In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.
A little of writing. Very little. Too little.
This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.
And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.
The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.
As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.
So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.
See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.
Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.
The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.
So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.
I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.
My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.
Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.
