When I’m in the middle of a project I’m pretty careful about what extracurricular activities I allow myself because I understand that being open to them may (and often does) divert, as well as inform what I’m writing. Today I trusted in the actress Julia Roberts, and went to the movies to see her in EAT, PRAY, LOVE where I was introduced to Elizabeth Gilbert’s 2006 story. (No, I haven’t read the novel.)

I don’t need to tell you that there is evidence of rebirth out of destruction all around us. My little bit of transformation actually occurred in the lobby before the movie, while I waited for about twenty minutes for my mom and sister to arrive. I was early; they weren’t late, and no, there is no reason to bore you with the details of my “destruction” of nearly twelve months ago.

For, as I wrote in my last blog post I was diverted from my play rewrites this summer when I suffered the pneumonia relapse. Then I was inspired to start writing the first of my novella series. Somehow two weeks ago, after my birthday, I was diverted off my writing track and have been literally consumed by researching my family tree.

I realized today that I got blocked two weeks ago, because I don’t really know who my protagonist is. What I realized today is that I write to figure out who I am in relationship to the world around me, i.e. I also don’t know who I am. Since my protagonist shares my worldview, albeit she’s twelve-years-old, this poses quite a dilemma. Some people, like Ms. Gilbert, call that finding God or the god within ourselves.

What I’ve learned in the last couple of weeks is that I am apparently descended from French Huegenots and Lutherans, and others who desired a better life for themselves and their children and escaped religious persecution by coming to North America. They settled in Virginia, fought the American Revolutionary War, and were rewarded with land grants in the newly formed counties of Georgia, which were confiscated from the Creek and Cherokee peoples. Many bought and sold Black people, but I was gratified to discover last night that at least one family may have fought for the Union during the American Civil War.

It is no wonder to me that the first Amendment of the United States Constitution is: The Freedom of Religion, Press, Expression. “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

I believe that my little trip to the movies has started the path toward my creative rebirth. Let’s just say, I’ve worked through my block and have a better idea of where my project is going…

It’s Tuesday night of my week to blog; end of day two. Where have I been? I should say, “I’ve been writing a life affirming post, of course!”; something that describes my life as a playwright. The truth is I actually haven’t thought much about playwriting or this blog for over a month other than to stomp down my abject fear whenever it arises that people who read what I write really don’t care what I have to say.

So I forge ahead. Back in June I imagined that I would update you on my rewrite of PHISHING. However, in June I also happened to attend a college reunion, which I followed with a relapse of pneumonia when I feverishly (accidentally) burned my hand on a splashing, microwaved (boiling hot) cup of tomato rice soup. I came out of the hospital after 6 days and have spent the last three weeks recovering and worrying about how I am going to pay my bills. I go back to work on Friday, and the semester starts next Monday. Where has my summer gone?

With all of my good intentions to rewrite PHISHING and WATER CLOSET, something said to me at my college reunion sparked my return to a story that I first began as a tween. In the first two weeks of my recovery I wrote over 10,000 words toward a projected 30,000 word novella, the first of a series. Then I had a birthday. Not a milestone birthday. Yet this begins the year toward a definite milestone indeed, and I haven’t written a word in the intervening week. I have been immobilized. I have barely moved from my computer where I have spent the last week researching my family tree on the Internet (free resources, of course). Why, you ask? I can’t answer that question. I don’t recall the connection.

I do know that when I was a young girl I used to ask my grandpa all kinds of questions about our ancestry. He never answered me directly. He just sort of hemmed and hawed, which I thought was odd at the time. I was romantic in my youth, and thought that I would naturally be proud of where I come from. Over the years I’ve heard tale of being of Irish and English descent on my father’s side. However, it’s always been kind of like my family starts with me, my parents, and my two sisters, and in a way it’s turned out to be true.

Over the last seven days, I have discovered that it’s possible that my father’s family apparently “won” in the 1805 Georgia land lottery, and moved from Virginia and the Carolinas and settled land confiscated from the Creek people. There they purchased and sold Black people, farmed, mined, had many, many children, and apparently some of them intermarried with the Cherokee people. They also settled in Alabama.

There is even an unsubstantiated written rumor that in the early 1700s an ancestor of mine “married” a member of the Monocan tribe in Farnham Parish, Richmond, Virginia near the James River. They’ve fought and some died in the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Indian Wars, and quite a few were Confederate soldiers during the Civil War, and (at least) one was murdered.

I’ve read that my g-grandfather was so upset upon finding out that his mother was part-Cherokee that he burned her paperwork and fled to Oklahoma to get away from his family. He apparently also changed his middle name; either to escape any connection to her “Indian blood” or most likely to escape the rumor that he murdered a man for teasing his horse. Of course these are musings posted online by “family” members passing down stories, jots from family bibles, and records copied out of the State Archives.

I guess you could say, I’m incubating an idea. That may indeed be the point of this blog posting, and an affirming one after all; research, research, research. Who knows where it will lead. Unfortunately, I don’t have any children to pass my worldview on to, but I write. Maybe someday someone will care very much about what I have to say. I love serendipity 🙂

There’s a writing exercise that my mentor uses to get the fire started when imagining the world of the story.  The exercise is to do stream of consciousness writing on a topic that the writer feels strongly about.  What this is does is raise the counter argument to the opinion.  Then the writer takes this debate onto the story in a parallel vein. 

The argument is the catalyst to a dialogue between the hero and the antagonist.  Both sides have a need to be fulfilled, and they’re going to try their damndest to get what they want.

Today, I’ll indulge in something I feel strongly about.  An email sent in good will, but ending with words that made me think if what each of us were pursuing was in the best of our own interest.  The email trailed of as “just wanted to say hello..let’s try and get together sometime, when you’re not so busy…”  My knee-jerk reaction was detecting an undercurrent of complaint – “when you’re not so busy…”

What I feel strongly about is when people make demands of another person’s time to fit well into their plan.  I feel there has to be a strong mutual motivation between two people to spend time together, before the other person can begin to insinuate any demands on the other.  I think the friendship/relationship is already on a bad footing when one feels neglected and the other feels obliged to be less selfish with time, money or emotional commitment.

In this situation, I’m prepared to step away and move on because I know I can’t fulfill the expectations of the other person without trying to change, and I’m not prepared for that right now.   At the moment I’m still grounding myself to my decision to be a writer, a writer who works at a full-time job, and the regular paycheck supports the habit.  But this job does take its toll on my energy, and that’s the price I pay.

I had spent the past four years supporting the artistic pursuits of another artist, a musician, and I put my artistic aspirations on the backburner hoping that when his music career takes off then I can be the playwright. 

(In hindsight, if there is a calling to do creative work then pay heed to that voice right away, because it is a calling that leads to your fulfillment as a human being.  When you quiet down that voice then you also kill that living spirit, and your life becomes a dull routine of working to consume without fulfillment.  Empty consumerism like popcorn and high-fructose syrup.)

Career aspirations and expectations did not match reality on many levels, and this tumbled into the relationship which fell apart.  Statistically, my situation wasn’t unique, but on a personal level – it sucked.  The breakup, though anguishing and nearly breaking me, also awakened me. I found strength, and I woke up: To make my dream come true, I had to be true to my dream.

Being true to my dream means that I am conscientious of how I spend my time and energy.  So when someone takes offense to me being busy then I can’t apologize.  I won’t do it, because that would negate my affirmation to organize my life around the art I am purposefully making.  My belief system has evolved that I am consciously aware that my creation of writing is the center of my universe.  The imagery includes nourishing my wellbeing by surrounding myself with supportive individuals who feels empathy with my purpose. 

It’s not selfish to do what you want to do.  If you examine at a deep level the most kind and giving acts of the “Mother Teresa’s” of the world then it’s possible to see that they are doing what they need to do in pursuit of their own happiness.  

~ There exists only one aloneness, and it is great, and it is not easy to bear.  To nearly everyone come those hours that would gladly exchange for any cheap or even the most banal camaraderie, for even the slightest inclination to choose the second best or the most unworthy thing.  But perhaps it is exactly in those hours when aloneness can flourish.  Its growth is painful as the growing up of a young boy and sad as the emergence of springtime~ 

~But that should not confuse you.  What you really need is simply this – aloneness, great inner solitude.  To go within and for hours not to meet anyone – that is what one needs to attain~ 

~Your innermost happening is worth all your love.  You must work on that.  Do not expend too much courage or time to clarify your position to others ~

Rainer Maria Rilke, “Letters to a Young Poet”, translated by Joan M. Burnham

While making an Indian style pulau for breakfast I savored the fragrance of the spices toasting together on the hot pan.  In the mix were: cardamom seeds, cinnamon bark, clove, coriander and cumin.  It struck me then that the bouquet from the heating spices was a form of alchemy.  The catalyst was the flame.  It allowed for the spices to release their unique essences and blend with the others.  I like to call it:  Greet and Meet. 

How can I apply this magic to my writing?  What is the magic that good writing needs to be fulfilling?  I think it’s simple, but so hard to get at.  And this simple magic is truth. 

 Have you ever gone to a comedy show and the material and delivery just isn’t funny?  What makes a joke funny I wondered?  Analysing it, I came up with – it’s the exposure of the subtexts beyond the words.  It’s identifying the moment that resonates in each one of us, and transforming this moment to words and action.  To the writer it is the transformation in the story and also what change happens to the story teller in going through it.

 Last night I was reworking a situation, one which I’ve been laboring on for quite sometime.  It’s an important situation in which the key players are together.  In rewriting this situation I felt there was not any flavor and substance to the dialogue.  It was flat.  What’s the matter? I asked.  What am I hiding?  And what should I do to get unstuck?  I stepped back and got busy with nervous habits – eating and drinking lots of caffeine.  Well this is not going to help me get unstuck.  Get back in there and face the situation.  What do these people really want to say?

 Now, the mystery in the process started to unravel.  I, as the writer, needed to check-in my ego at the door and leave it behind with its agenda and my idea of the story.  Though I have the omniscient point of view, I am not the god creating this situation.  I am the channel for these people trying to tell each other something important to them.  Trust Analyn.  Learn to trust the players in the game.  Know that they know what they want to say.

 So the magic was ignited when I learned to express some compassion towards my players.  I stopped dictating what I think he should say, and how she should respond.  I just let them express, and I got further along in the story.  The alchemy of the story was happening at many levels:  in the story, in my players, and in me.  It was liberating.

 “The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.” 
– Anais Nin 

Imagine the seed of change, perhaps, carelessly dropped into the earth of your consciousness by a casual comment, or a persistent voice that calls you to ‘look into this”.  But you carry on with your days:  working to maintain life. 

 One day, you’re in a place surrounded by people and situations that are beyond the normal realms of your day-to-day activities.  There are moments when you pause and consider the purpose of it all, all this running around and keeping the fire burning till you feel burnt out.

You start to inquire what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.  How did I get here?

 ~*~

 Saturday morning, I did my 3 pages of Morning Page (Artist’s Way) at 6 o’clock which is very early for a weekend.  However, I am determined to develop the habit of getting out of bed and staying up rather than allowing for the temptation of “lingering a little longer” in bed which often ends up to be another one to two hours of combined half-sleep and strange dream states.  It’s my 6^th day of my new practice.  I am so sleepy, almost “stupid tired” that words are trailing up or down on the pages.  Incoherently drunk from lack of sleep I forge forward to the last 3^rd page.

 I do everything within my power to hang in there in my awakened state: coffee, shower, sweep the floors – just mindless activities to keep me moving.  Eventually I maintain an awareness of being “awake”.  I quote “awake” because I begin to experience the state of change beginning.  The tough shell of the spore holding the golden fluid of life, begins to soften, and allowing for stretch of tiny tendrils reaching towards light.

 By 9 am, I am eating toast and coffee for breakfast as I stare at the oleander bush beyond the iron bars keeping them out and locking me in.  I feel restless in my confinement, because I’m at a halt in play, feeling stuck in the mud because I can’t get to the gold I’m digging for. 

 “Why am I writing this?”  “Why would anyone read this?”  “What if I’m wrong?”.  The self-sabotaging question formulate my worst fear about the journey I’ve embarked upon.  My worst fear is I have nothing to say. 

 I swallow and gulp down the rest of my breakfast to run away from myself.  The reflection in the mirror is distorted, and I don’t like what I see.  Picking up the dog leash I coax my dog, “Walkies?”. She and I wander towards the thrift store near my apartment.  When I’m at loose ends I go there to play.  In this store of possibilities I can play pretend without denting my wallet.  I browse through the books and found –  “Six Plays by Henrik Ibsen” and “The Theatre of Revolt” in the heap of other peoples’ refuse.  

 I sink into “The Theatre of Revolt”, and found a blade of thought to maim and banish the sword of doubts my mind had raised. 

 “The revolt of the dramatist, it is important to add, is more imaginative than practical – imaginative, absolute, and pure.  In the earlier phases of the theatre of revolt – in some of the works of Ibsen, for example, and of Shaw – the drama sometimes begins to look like an act of utility; and in the plays of Brecht, it is designed to lead to political revolution… Dramatic art is not identical with reality for any practical application, but rather proceeds along a parallel plane; and dramatic revolt therefore, is always much more total than the program of political agitators or social reformers.  The modern dramatist is essentially a metaphysical rebel, not a practical revolutionary; whatever his personal convictions, his art is the expression of a spiritual condition.”

 –  by Robert Brustein from “The Theatre of Revolt”

 I got to this place because I asked for it – I wanted to take the journey into the unstable and unknown.  As a self-declared playwright in a family of “practical” jobs and careers, I’m alone.  This journey asks my fingers and toes to stretch beyond my comfort zone, and be prepared to be surprised and astonished.  It’s no longer the product that I’m obsessed with, but the process of change and expanding my consciousness through my writing.  The byproduct is inconsequential to what I’ve learned along the way.

DIGRESSON

Playwriting has changed so much because of the Web.

As writers, we are far less isolated than we were before we went online. As a result of these blogs alone, we have a support system.

It was encouraging for me to read about Erica Bennett’s production difficulties because I had a similar devastating time with a play of mine. It felt good to know that I was not alone and might not have failed as completely as I thought I had.

We’re part of a community. We might not meet each other in person but can connect with other playwrights in a flash. Through different lists, we can meet playwrights all over the world. We may not be able to see their productions, but we can probably see clips on youtube and stills on their webpages.

Researching is different, too. We can go online and worlds open up in a morning. Today, I was looking up 1908 bathing suits and came across an article about Annette Kellerman, a swimmer who was arrested in 1909 for wearing a one piece form fitting bathing suit that exposed her arms and legs. Her story held me and I thought….”Well, I wonder if there’s a play in that?”

The Web changed how I felt about my writing. I remember working on a play years ago about women’s suffrage, researching in a reference library, reading big volumes of history and peering cross-eyed at miles of microfilm. I felt rather special, not of the common run, a feeling that sitting at the computer doesn’t encourage. That’s probably a damned good thing. (The library is still a great draw, and nothing beats sitting at a big tables with the light coming in through big windows.)

It’s not just research. Making music and working with a composer has completely changed. The piano is an accessory and the composer sets up his keyboard on a table, puts on his earphones and taps away. He or she sends out the finished song or piece to the playwright by email, ready for downloading to a CD. The actors and singers can learn the piece at home and come in to rehearsal off book and off song.

The high tech is terrific, but means nothing if we don’t sit down and say what we have to say, of course. And while I’m procrastinating, I’m going to read Sara Israel’s recommendation, No Tricks In My Pocket: Paul Newman Directs, and look at Krapp’s Last Tape, just to find out about that banana business.