It started with the title. It was a great title. It was one of those titles that I thought, yes that’s what it’s all about. It was provocative yet mysterious. It was sexy yet full of ideas. It would even look good on a poster.
I started writing the characters. They were all right. They took their time revealing themselves, but I’m not a pushy writer. I gave them their space. There were five of them. They were all humans. They were characters that actors would love to play.
I liked the stage I saw. There was versatility to it, yet it was just realistic enough for an audience to say, ahah, I know that place. It was a good space.
I wrote a draft beginning to end. It was exploratory. I just wanted to see the characters run. It was two acts.
I put it aside for a year. Or maybe three years. Time is not specific in Los Angeles.
Recently, I picked it up again.
I hated it.
I hated everything about it. The set was claustrophobic. The characters were awful. The ideas in it were stupid and muddled. Even the title annoyed me.
I didn’t hate myself for writing the play. I just hated the play. What was I thinking?
I have written other plays that I’ve put aside for years. When I picked them up again, I could see my thinking and build on it. But this play was a junkyard of yuckiness. I even started to relish in my hatred of the play, and I knew not to give into hate.
So I put the play back in its virtual little yellow folder.
Then, last week, I started thinking about the play I hate. The title wasn’t so bad. I started making notes to change it. Oh no.
Then I realized that if I push all the things I hate about it further, I might start to like it.
Meanwhile, I continue to work on a completely different play that I like.
And on that bombshell, I end my blogging week here. As always, it was a delight. JenTweet