What happens when the play is finished, the theatre has signed the contract, but the play won't premiere for another year?
What does the playwright do with all the voices in the head - the imagined interactions - the premeditated emotions?
Life can get sticky if a writer isn't writing.
I'm walking through the valley of that shadow these days. The script is in the hands of the theatre; I know we'll be in the revision process soon.
A "dramaturge" has been notified that my work is ready to move forward.
And I'm crawling along, losing my mind.
I've tried starting a new play. It is not impossible to do so; the writing is sound.
But somewhere, out there, beyond the clear blue sky - - -someone is reading my work and thinking of me.
Until I know what that means, life is a little stuck.
Last week, fooling myself, I returned to my favorite cafe to write. The wait staff were thrilled to see me. They gave me my favorite table in the corner.
My Waterman fountain pen had a new cartridge. My new notebook was fresh, white with potential.
The language flowed - the dialogue was embarrassing and bright.
When I returned home three hours later, I rushed to check my messages.
No word. Nothing new about the play in development.
When I was a young woman, I didn't understand how important it is to be faithful. I never cheated on anyone I loved, mind you. But that claim is impotent. I never had the chance.
At this stage of life, my first love is writing, My faithfulness is holding me back. I feel fickle to start a new project when the old one is not complete.
Until I see the actors take position, the music begin and the lights rise on my stage, I sense the monogamy of my art.
Before all this is over, I hope I learn to be more of a slut for art.
After all, the women who are remembered are the women who were willing to move from project to project - never looking back.
Perhaps I'll be like that before the final curtain.
In the meantime, in the in-between time, I'm suffering here, folks.
I mean - do they like me?
Do they really like me? .