Today is the day. The deadline has arrived.
That may well explain why I’m sitting with a flurry of notes, a new document open on page 5 (five! I’m using a format that reads 90 seconds a page, so ideal document length here is 35-40 for a 1 hour play). I am panicking. I am scared. I am…
I am an author.
My significant other, locked in his own room, with his own play, said today “I worry I might not finish on time. But it’s such a nice problem to have”. He is right. Writing a play is a necessity (we’re artists!) and a luxury (we can afford to do it). It is, by rights, a pleasure.
That doesn’t explain why I’m writing a blogpost, as opposed to working my way through connecting and correcting scenes.
I’m deadly scared. And what I’m realizing is, it’s part of it. It’ll never go away.
I’m scared that it’s cheesy; that the characters don’t connect and will end up, as one reviewer stated, “2D” (the other reviewer loved them, but it’s hard to focus on positives).
I’m scared I’ll fail what I set out to do: make a difference, offer a story, share pain and beauty. Fear that I’m suffering without this elusive artistic satisfaction to look forward to.
And the only thing I know how to do is – use that fear. Infuse my work with it. Live it, breathe it, exhale it.
I’m scared that I’ll fail…. if so, I better fail big!
Six hours to go. Clock ticking. Wish me luck…