At work on not one but TWO stageplay drafts today. THE VALENCE OF STEAM, which is the Jewish-centric work, and THE BROAD STROKES, which I desperately need to get completed for a reading. The first draft of Valence is with the Artistic Director at present and I am waiting on word of where things are with it. These are the times that try men's souls. Truly. The waiting is like a stress-induced pandemic that nothing but information can solve. What does that person think? Does it hit the mark at all? How much will need to be done in subsequent drafts? Will there be a blockade when presented with opinion? All these questions and more beleaguer me to no end. The mind recoils in horror, the skin feels as though it will melt at any moment...and yet, I struggle to let go. To let go of the need for that information, the notion that what SOMEONE ELSE THINKS has any relevance to the quality of my work (or myself). It's insidious and was born of something I didn't create, but which has all too much bearing on that which I do.
I take refuge in minimalism, or at least the concept of that all too fleeting notion that less 'things' will bring greater joy. Everyone seems to be talking about it of late. Or of course, perhaps it is of my own design. Who knows. Yet I plod forward, despite all evidence to the contrary that minimizing, that reduction will bring more happiness, more peace, more whatever. It is the direction of the thing, of these plays, of getting them down the best way I know how and of trying to find a better manner all the time that creates such a visceral conflict of whether to work on them all the time or be more structured. I wish I had never bought or seen a t
Where I extoll the virtues and pitfalls of writing and whatever else happens to float through my transom...