( It was published and produced a year ago.)
Every time she looked away from the page, I took it personally. Why didn't it hold her attention? Every time she went back to the page, I relaxed. She kept doing this. Ohmigawd. She's memorizing it. She's an actor. I wept (discreetly) for joy. What an idiot.
To restore myself to sanity, I made myself think about Mom, how she's doing, planned how to feed her the strawberry smoothie when I get there, thought about her gnarled feet in her little grip-socks, and how she always wants to get out of her wheelchair because she doesn't know she can't stand up and you have to distract her. She likes to help...if she's convinced that sitting still is helpful, she'll usually sit still and forget about the belt.
(Is somebody putting my play on in the East Bay? Hey -- maybe I'll get a check! I should visit my PO Box more often...)
I saw someone I don't know memorizing their lines in a play I wrote. Someone I didn't know read something I wrote. Something I wrote is in French's, cheap and small enough to go anywhere...unbelievable - a local actor read it on the 51 to Alameda, read my f-ing play..holy shit.
It's kinda like I thought it would be. Publishing doesn't mean a car, a house, a chunk of change. It means that all through my daily doings, I can say to myself, "At least one of my play's is produced and published."
my bank account is overdrawn again. My ex's mother cuts her eyes at me. My mother couldn't swallow her smoothie today. The grocery laid off 3 people. I'm losing my place. The Shitty Committee wants me to think there's no point in writing, and maybe there isn't, but I saw someone on the 51 reading my play today, and I can't stop feeling good, like I can handle everything.
unbelievable.
I'm going dancing at El Valenciano tonight, this feels good.
Forgot it was about the journey to this moment...so also -- how did I end up on the bus, seeing somebody reading their lines out of my play? Sitting and writing and re-writing for a year, coming home after work and writing, taking it to a friend for critique, reading it out loud, staged readings, re-writings...all the time doubting, all the time wondering, all the time keeping at it while telling myself I'm not working hard enough...Then one of those moments comes when you feel sure it was the right thing after all, and the relief is sweetsweetsweet...
ReplyDeleteThe "Shitty Committee" is tireless -it's best to ignore it and keep writing! This is a great response. Love the details: the strawberry smoothy, your mom agreeing not to try to stand as long as she thinks she's being helpful, people being laid off at the grocery store.
ReplyDeleteAnna <3
This is so convincing that, for a moment, I forgot that it hasn't actually happened yet! Take this as a huge compliment, Gigi; it means that your writing is incredibly convincing (which it is), and I'm glad you're in my group because I'm excited to read more! P.S. All last class I was sitting there wondering why you looked so familiar, and I realized you were in my American Lit I and II classes, and I remember always being so impressed by the things you had to say. Your comments were always so intelligent and articulate! I can't wait to see how that comes across in your writing!
ReplyDeleteno gg this is the journey of your book and it isn't ironic that some things stay the same even when you have some glory. hmmmmm
ReplyDeletee
One thing that makes a story work is when the reader feels sympathy for the narrator. I do, here, and I do because the writer puts me exactly in the place (the 51, on the way to see mom) and the event (the wholly unexpected sight of someone reading the narrators play).
ReplyDeletenice job
-michelle
love this. just love it.
ReplyDelete