(no subject)
I've put up a lot of barriers in terms of my writing this week. I've had a lot going on and the normal disregard hurled my way by people whose respect and recognition I hate-to-crave-but-do hit me much deeper than it does normally.
I'm writing this one play, about a sweet imaginative little boy. In my last draft, my teacher Chris said the play had lost the magical quality that made it unique.
I broke down - tears snot unintelligiblity - and said the reason that cut me so deeply was because "This is my story! This is the most personal I've ever been in my writing!"
I started thinking about that today as I was writing, and wondering what it meant - I knew I had meant it fiercely when I said it in the classroom, but how was this little boy's story my own?
After a day with my eyes glued to the page, charting each thought and letting each feeling course through me - it hit me like a brick to the stomach:
Dylan is a super sensitive imaginative little boy whose gentle loving self is forced to change into something rough and craggy because of how mercilessly others mock him about his father.
.....
I HAD NO IDEA DYLAN WAS ME. I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT. That being said, it was a real script breakthrough. Unless it was like all those times in therapy you think you've had a breakthrough and your therapist has to explain you haven't.
Another subject:
I've never felt so out of my league in my life. Why can't I pursue something I'm naturally good at? I could've been a singer so so so easily. A doctor even. No. I had to choose something I have no god given proclivity for and be mired in this now-constant insecurity and the terrible feeling that I'm just treading while everyone else is seated in grand sail boats, sunning themselves. Please do not comment and tell me I'm a good writer. In fact. I'm turning comments off on this one. Gaaaaaahhhhhhhh crying jag is coming. Everything is too much right now. I feel a bit crazy. Everyone is trying to make me feel better and that just makes me mad. I wish I were a monk or a nun so I could just have what I want: a room full of people to sit with for company and no one expecting me to talk, or for them to talk to me. I am going to be up all night. Nighttime is the worst. It's the pits. It's the loudest quiet. It's the biggest lonely.
I'm writing this one play, about a sweet imaginative little boy. In my last draft, my teacher Chris said the play had lost the magical quality that made it unique.
I broke down - tears snot unintelligiblity - and said the reason that cut me so deeply was because "This is my story! This is the most personal I've ever been in my writing!"
I started thinking about that today as I was writing, and wondering what it meant - I knew I had meant it fiercely when I said it in the classroom, but how was this little boy's story my own?
After a day with my eyes glued to the page, charting each thought and letting each feeling course through me - it hit me like a brick to the stomach:
Dylan is a super sensitive imaginative little boy whose gentle loving self is forced to change into something rough and craggy because of how mercilessly others mock him about his father.
.....
I HAD NO IDEA DYLAN WAS ME. I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT. That being said, it was a real script breakthrough. Unless it was like all those times in therapy you think you've had a breakthrough and your therapist has to explain you haven't.
Another subject:
I've never felt so out of my league in my life. Why can't I pursue something I'm naturally good at? I could've been a singer so so so easily. A doctor even. No. I had to choose something I have no god given proclivity for and be mired in this now-constant insecurity and the terrible feeling that I'm just treading while everyone else is seated in grand sail boats, sunning themselves. Please do not comment and tell me I'm a good writer. In fact. I'm turning comments off on this one. Gaaaaaahhhhhhhh crying jag is coming. Everything is too much right now. I feel a bit crazy. Everyone is trying to make me feel better and that just makes me mad. I wish I were a monk or a nun so I could just have what I want: a room full of people to sit with for company and no one expecting me to talk, or for them to talk to me. I am going to be up all night. Nighttime is the worst. It's the pits. It's the loudest quiet. It's the biggest lonely.