I’m working on the fourth page one rewrite of act one of my new play… The fourth in a month… Of act one… Adjusting the act two outline, constantly, as I go.
Grateful for all of my readers…
But it doesn’t feel like peeling an onion; I’m not crying…
Feels like a lump of clay; it’s shape slowly revealing itself to me…
Losing sight of what I want to Say is part of my game. I’m writing toward some unknown…
It’s so easy to get caught up in page counts and format and sentimentality and my own words.
It would be so much easier to write from an outline. I try.
But I lust for the freedom of letting characters breath, the moment when one page becomes five, without effort. I had a thirteen page today.
And tomorrow I cut the [insert expletive here] out of it.
There is a party happening out there in the world, without me, because I am writing toward a self-imposed, hard, fast deadline.
Because, if I didn’t create a deadline, I’m afraid I won’t write. It’s happened before.
I get caught up in house repairs and chores, and work, and pets, and family.
A small part of me knows I need more balance.
But time is a terrible thing to waste when you’re racing a clock.
The pendulum swings.
