It's the Intermission
A Creative Coffee Break

Edith Wharton said writing a novel was like:

The beginning: a ride through a spring wood. The middle: the Gobi Desert. The end: going down the Cresta Run.

Something terrifying and exhilerating is going on in the re-write of the most recent play. Something in my process, in how I perceive the writing, has changed. Is changing. Not finished changing. As I’m writing, I often feel the story is outside myself. That is, not of myself. I know many writers have talked about this. You feel as though you’re channelling the words. That is not a new feeling. It’s the crafting of it all that feels different.

Recently, I got pushed out of my safety net into the hands of people who didn’t know my work. A development workshop. They challenged me in ways I haven’t been challenged in a while. I resisted momentarily, and then gave myself over to the challenge. I didn’t do what they wanted me to do. I did what I wanted to do. Made myself dig deeper and reach higher, unsure I could do so. By the end of it, I felt great at what I had accomplished.

During the workshop, I had a moment when I felt very afraid, and felt unfocused, unsure, uncertain of the task before me. I drew myself back in and told myself I had to put all that fear aside. Too many people were counting on me, and they needed me to pay attention and be a part of what we were trying to do together. And so I moved forward, fear in its ‘proper’ place, and glad of the result.

The experience has made me want to step even more beyond my current circle. The light over my delightful playwrights group feels dim. I do not know if it’s complacency or familiarity. I do know they will not challenge me in the way I would like. Even when I ask them to do so. I know I still have The Safe Friend, MBH, who is outside this circle. He still tells me when my writing is not up to par.

I don’t know what all my pondering will be conjuring up as we move into the Fall. More always to be revealed. Still, here I am riding down The Cresta, head first, screaming with joy at the prospect of more change, coming to the end of the Re-Write of the re-write of the whatever.