Tuesday, September 22, 2009
This Guy Sounds Pretty Neat-O...
Can't wait to one Mr. J. Holtman.
For the record, I did get in touch with Carla Zanoni, the author of the piece and of this blog, and she says the MT will print a correction next week. I say, why rob J. Holtman of his rightful press. Long live the Holtman!
All kidding aside, it's always nice to see your name (almost) in print and get nice pats on the head. Much appreciated!
For the record, I did get in touch with Carla Zanoni, the author of the piece and of this blog, and she says the MT will print a correction next week. I say, why rob J. Holtman of his rightful press. Long live the Holtman!
All kidding aside, it's always nice to see your name (almost) in print and get nice pats on the head. Much appreciated!
When Unintended Met Consequences...
Amazingly, Congressional Republicans do something right. Well, almost right.
I believe the phrase you're looking for is "HA HA HA HA HA!"
Prepare to launch walkbacks in five, four, three, two...
*UPDATE - WOW!* That's what I get for not really reading things I link to, or paying attention to the blurts of the right-wing media. I just went back and read the rest of the Huffington Post article. This story is now awesome. Because that law passed the House AND the Senate. Which according to Schoolhouse Rock, means it's now a law.
I didn't actually realize this thing has passed into law. I figured that it has passed the House and the Senate would let it die a slow, agonizing death, as that seems to be the way our government works these days. But this insane, totally vindictive gesture against an organization that actually didn't do anything wrong is the law of the land (well, it will be if President Obama* signs it). And because it's the law of the land, it will actually be useful in cutting off quite a few companies that have done our national image some real harm. Of course, it may do some harm to politicians re-election funds...but what's a few million between friends?
Way to go, Congress. No, seriously. This is actually doing your job and denying funding to organizations that break the law. Interestingly, it probably won't affect ACORN too much, since they get so little federal funding. You stay classy, Congress.
Now, even more than before, I'm going to enjoy watching those walkbacks.
*And, yes, I still get a few goosebumps when I write that.
I believe the phrase you're looking for is "HA HA HA HA HA!"
Prepare to launch walkbacks in five, four, three, two...
*UPDATE - WOW!* That's what I get for not really reading things I link to, or paying attention to the blurts of the right-wing media. I just went back and read the rest of the Huffington Post article. This story is now awesome. Because that law passed the House AND the Senate. Which according to Schoolhouse Rock, means it's now a law.
I didn't actually realize this thing has passed into law. I figured that it has passed the House and the Senate would let it die a slow, agonizing death, as that seems to be the way our government works these days. But this insane, totally vindictive gesture against an organization that actually didn't do anything wrong is the law of the land (well, it will be if President Obama* signs it). And because it's the law of the land, it will actually be useful in cutting off quite a few companies that have done our national image some real harm. Of course, it may do some harm to politicians re-election funds...but what's a few million between friends?
Way to go, Congress. No, seriously. This is actually doing your job and denying funding to organizations that break the law. Interestingly, it probably won't affect ACORN too much, since they get so little federal funding. You stay classy, Congress.
Now, even more than before, I'm going to enjoy watching those walkbacks.
*And, yes, I still get a few goosebumps when I write that.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Flash Mobs Always Make Me Cry.
Like this one.
There's something about them, particularly these "spontaneous" dance ones, where a bunch of people turn a shopping center, or a train station, or a battleship into a Broadway musical. (Though this is also awesome.)
One part is that it's not "spontaneous" at all. They involve hard work, rehearsal, preparation. Working in theatre, none of that is new to me. But the idea of 20,000 people and not all of them being theatre people, mostly just regular people who like the idea doing that work, and being willing to jump in, just kind of fills my heart with joy. Dan Kois nails that part of it here, talking about the famous wedding dance, but it goes for all of these.
(A sidenote: as I was clicking through links for this post, I came across this. The two kids in the wedding video have put together a website requesting donations for a non-profit that deals with domestic violence. I think I might love them both a little now.)
But there's also the sense of community that comes out of these videos, the child-like wonder you can even see on Oprah's face, of having art magically spring up in front of your eyes. More art should be like that, feel like that, I think. Like it welled up, naturally, irresistably from the very earth beneath your feet. Like 20,000 people, unconsciously, simultaneously thought, "Let's move our arms this way. That will look beautiful." And then they did.
I think I watched that video about four times yesterday. I made my roommate watch it. I posted it on my facebook page. And every time, I got a little teary. Because it was 9/11 and because, for me, these videos are about community and reaching out. Connecting to your neighbor in some way, even for four minutes, standing on Michigan Avenue, and I can connect here, thousands of miles away and you can connect there, wherever you are, and share, for a little bit, that child-like wonder. It feels like, despite facebook, blogs, American Idol and whatever, the chances to be a part of something bigger than you and to know you're not alone are few and far between these days. I want to cherish these moments when I know, in a crowded space, I'm not alone.
I can see why people love the freaking wave.
There's something about them, particularly these "spontaneous" dance ones, where a bunch of people turn a shopping center, or a train station, or a battleship into a Broadway musical. (Though this is also awesome.)
One part is that it's not "spontaneous" at all. They involve hard work, rehearsal, preparation. Working in theatre, none of that is new to me. But the idea of 20,000 people and not all of them being theatre people, mostly just regular people who like the idea doing that work, and being willing to jump in, just kind of fills my heart with joy. Dan Kois nails that part of it here, talking about the famous wedding dance, but it goes for all of these.
(A sidenote: as I was clicking through links for this post, I came across this. The two kids in the wedding video have put together a website requesting donations for a non-profit that deals with domestic violence. I think I might love them both a little now.)
But there's also the sense of community that comes out of these videos, the child-like wonder you can even see on Oprah's face, of having art magically spring up in front of your eyes. More art should be like that, feel like that, I think. Like it welled up, naturally, irresistably from the very earth beneath your feet. Like 20,000 people, unconsciously, simultaneously thought, "Let's move our arms this way. That will look beautiful." And then they did.
I think I watched that video about four times yesterday. I made my roommate watch it. I posted it on my facebook page. And every time, I got a little teary. Because it was 9/11 and because, for me, these videos are about community and reaching out. Connecting to your neighbor in some way, even for four minutes, standing on Michigan Avenue, and I can connect here, thousands of miles away and you can connect there, wherever you are, and share, for a little bit, that child-like wonder. It feels like, despite facebook, blogs, American Idol and whatever, the chances to be a part of something bigger than you and to know you're not alone are few and far between these days. I want to cherish these moments when I know, in a crowded space, I'm not alone.
I can see why people love the freaking wave.
Monday, August 17, 2009
This Time of Year
I’m a summer person. I stay huddled inside, swathed in layers of wool, all winter, just waiting for the sun to come out and burn this city up. Maybe it’s the tropical island blood in me. Maybe it’s the memory of summers off from school. It might even be the all the women in their summer dresses. Who knows? But I come alive in the summer. I’m in my element. Sure, I sweat buckets all the time, but I never complain about the heat. I’ve never owned an air conditioner and don’t plan on getting one. I don’t want to miss a second of summer, because I know that too soon, it’s going to be winter again. Cultural stereotypes and “letting down the race” be damned, I’d go around in a loincloth all summer, soaking it in. (Also, body image issues be damned. I’d let the belly swing free.) I want to hold that heat inside of me for as long as I can.
But I find myself…unhappy. With the sun shining and the green grass of the park outside my building beckoning, I’ve got a dark cloud following me. I get snappish, short-tempered, moody. It always creeps up on me as we come into August. It happens slowly and always takes me off-guard. I should be happy, I tell myself, I should be enjoying this. But my spirit darkens and darkens as the days feel like they last forever.
At first, I think I don’t know why. I attribute it to the summer doldrums or whatever. I tell myself that I had a busy spring and it’s just caught up with me. There’s a disconnect. The world is telling to enjoy myself, but something inside of me is lashing out with anger and pain, like a wounded animal. I try to ignore it, but sooner or later, it starts to dawn on me what’s going on. Then I try to ignore it even more, try to pretend that that’s not it, that I don’t need to acknowledge it. But then I realize I do, or I’m going to do something stupid and truly self-destructive.
August 18th is coming up. And then August 25th. With my birthday in between.
My brother drowned in an inlet from Jamaica Bay near his house on August 18th, 2001. His body was found on August 25th. This year makes it eight years.
Eight years is actually a long time. Someone who was in middle school in 2001 has now graduated from, not just from high school, but from college. Someone born in 2001 is now in third grade and already a little person. This country has gone to war in two countries, had a recovery and a crash, and finally a new president. Amazingly, New York’s only had one mayor. Outside of Law & Order and The Simpsons, I don’t think a single TV show that was on in 2001 is still on.
In the last eight years, I’ve had four jobs. I’ve lived in seven places. I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them never knew my brother. Most don’t even know I had a younger brother.
When this time of year hits and I finally put it together with my low, black mood, I’m hit with a flood of memories, good and bad. Memories of my brother, my beautiful, passionate brother. Imitating Jim Carrey’s “I’m smoking!” from The Mask. Yelling at me, in the middle of some dumb argument, about how much he knew about the Marshall Plan (don’t even ask me what that was about). The way he would talk about acting, his love for it, his struggles with it. How disappointed he was at playing Waffles in a school workshop of Uncle Vanya, but how hard he worked at it. How my older brother and I had to go and get him out of jail so he could make his orientation at Juilliard (another long story…my family is full of long stories).
The first real play I wrote is dedicated to him, long before he died. Oddly, that play is about someone losing a sibling. In it, I put in it the way my younger brother would cry as baby, the way it would well up inside of him, but when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. He’d sit, mouth wide, for a second before the sound kicked in.
There was one time my older brother, my younger brother and sister and I went to play pool. This was rare, having the four of us together like that. I remember sitting there, watching my older brother and my younger brother, sixteen years of difference between them, teamed up, both smoking and totally beating the snot out of my sister and I, and thinking, “Wow, we’re on such different tracks.” But they weren’t that different. One long train ride, my older brother, a sculptor, talked to me and my younger brother about art and how to approach it, as educated black men in the world. My younger brother and I were far more assimilated, far more integration-minded than he was, and he was trying to convince us that the world wouldn’t want what we had. He didn’t, neither of us. But I know we both struggled with it.
I remember the spring before, the spring I graduated from grad school and my mom threw a graduation party for me at her place in Brooklyn. It was the first time in a very long time all five of my siblings were in one place. We took a lot of pictures of that day. It would be the last time we would all be in the same place again.
And I remember the summer he died. A wave of guilt, anger, sorrow and regret washes over me. My brother auditioned for a play I did that summer, walking into the audition room unannounced. I never found out if he knew before he walked in what he was auditioning for. I didn’t know he was coming. He was so nervous, and so was I. He was also so good. We called him back. But, in the end, we didn’t cast him. If I’d known he was coming, if I’d thought about it more, maybe I could have written something for him, changed something. But it was my first full-length show and I didn’t. I didn’t know how to tell him. I held off until my older brother called me and, uh, gently nudged me to make the call. I did and he took it well and professionally. I left that phone call feeling okay.
But then, later in the summer…with my large, contentious family, there’s always someone fighting with someone. And that summer, I was stuck in one in a long line of fights with my mom. In the midst of it, my younger brother called me. I was angry, having just gotten off the phone with my mom, and told him to call me back later. It was a fifteen second phone call. The last thing my younger brother heard from me was “I don’t have time for you.” I carry that with me, always.
Losing someone you love is a terrible thing and, being a writer, it’s incomprehensible for me. Because there are no words for it. No words can convey what it feels like. Saying “you have a pit inside of you” is 1) an awful cliché and 2) just doesn’t do any justice to what it feels like. Because you can imagine a pit, a deep, dark, yawning pit. But you can’t imagine this. This is a place no words can go.
Even eight years later, whenever I see a tall, skinny young black man of a certain color, certain shape, I think, “Is that him? Maybe there’s been a terrible, terrible mistake.” It’s non-sensical. But I do. My brain still knows him, still has him imprinted in there and is still looking for the right thing to fit into the imprint.
Eight years. It will be eight years on Tuesday. It will be a hot, bright summer day. The kind of day in June or July that I love. The kind of day I should be spending, blowing off work and laying in a field, or walking around the city. And I might be doing those things. But inside…inside will be a different story.
Because eight years ago on August 18th, Edward Craig Scriven died. And I still miss him.
Especially at this time of year.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Dead Letter Office
Well, not exactly dead and not exactly letters. My friend Zaida at Manhattan's Peak has a great post up about importing some old posts from a previous incarnation of her blog and it got me thinking about a similar thing that's been happening in my life for the last couple of weeks. I've been getting old e-mails.
See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.
I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.
Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.
For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.
Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.
But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.
Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.
Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.
But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.
But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.
But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.
See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.
I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.
Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.
For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.
Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.
But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.
Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.
Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.
But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.
But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.
But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Writing Anarchists: Diary #4 (or The Doldrums or Shaking Hands With Failure)
Page count: 10
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.
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.
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