... long distance

I remember I used to spend long nights

sprawled on the floor 

with my feet propped up against the wall,

or pacing on the balcony

talking on the phone with you.

we talked about sex,

politics, history, and memories.

We always talked about grand ideas

and we would always end

in a sort of limbo,

the way two people are

when they want to be together

but find themselves

on opposite sides

of the country.

But my favorite part

of every conversation,

the most intimate moment

when I truly felt

as if they miles between us had closed

and we were curled up

on the couch together talking,

was when you would pause,

always in the middle of a sentence,

and I would hear a faint little slurp

before you continued,

because for some reason

during that sentence,

you needed a sip

of wine or bourbon or coffee

and simply couldn’t go on without it.

... a play in ten minutes

Last night my roommate and I decided to go out to dinner because the reggae playing upstairs was deafening. We were all ready to go, and he remembered that he had bread in the oven (only he could forget that). So we had ten minutes until we could leave. I decided to write a play. (I should mention that I had been drinking) He gave me these items as inspiration: a design magazine, baking banana bread, and a blouse you never get to wear. Here's what I wrote, unedited:

JANELLE (36)- never gets to wear this blouse. she’s baking.

CARMICHAEL (38)- her husband. he’s reading a design magazine. he’s gay, and Janelle doesn’t know it.

CARMICHAEL- Ugh. Stripes are so out.

JANELLE- Are they? I thought stripes were always in. For spring.

CARMICHAEL - Nothing is ever always in.

            (a tiny roll of his eyes)

JANELLE - But you know, like, nautical. For spring. It’s timeless. I thought/

CARMICHAEL - Design isn’t that simple.

JANELLE -I guess nothing is.

CARMICHAEL - What’s that supposed to mean.

JANELLE - Nothing..

CARMICHAEL - Really though, what were you referring to?

JANELLE - I just. Whatever. Forget I said anything. Do you like my blouse?

CARMICHAEL- It’s very. Red.

JANELLE - I bought this, literally, two years ago, and I have never worn it.

CARMICHAEL - Seems a shame.

JANELLE – Well, that’s why I’m wearing it now.

CARMICHAEL - It’s very nice.

JANELLE - Nice?

CARMICHAEL - Yes. I like the neckline. It’s very. Flattering on you.

JANELLE - DO I need flattering?

CARMICHAEL - No, I said it was nice.

JANELLE - Thanks.

CARMICHAEL - What is it that you’re baking?

JANELLE - Banana bread!

CARMICHAEL - Why?

JANELLE - I had. We had bananas that had gone bad.

CARMICHAEL - I didn’t think you liked banana bread.

JANELLE - I don’t. I put chocolate chips it it.

CARMICHAEL - Oh thanks.

JANELLE -You know I watch out for you.

CARMICHAEL - Yes, you do.

JANELLE - And I hope that means something to you.

CARMICHAEL - Of course it does. And I watch out for you.

JANELLE - In different ways I guess.

CARMICHAEL- We’re different people.

JANELLE - Always have been.

            (long pause)
CARMICHAEL - Like, for example, I’m going to tell you that it’s probably for the best that you haven’t worn that blouse yet.

JANELLE - Really?!

CARMICHAEL - Yeah.

JANELLE - Wow.

CARMICHAEL - I love you.

JANELLE - I love you, too.

            (blackout. end of play.)

 

. . . writing every day

I have a new goal, which I am very excited about. So, I’m a writer, right? And when people find out, one of the most common things that people ask is, “Do you write every day?” I always scrunch up my face and make some bumbling reply about how I don’t have time and how the time between writing sessions actually helps me just as much as my actual writing sessions. The time helps my ideas to coalesce. Or some shit.

About six weeks ago I was invited to join a playwriting workshop. I jumped at the chance since I’ve been living in this the theatrical center of the world for nearly six months and have probably written a total of ten pages. I had had a new play kicking around in my head for a while, so I decided this would be a great time to dive in and actually write the thing. Yay!

So fast forward to last Thursday night. I have 60 pages of a new play that terrifies me in its honesty. One of the members of my group, Quincy, is a fairly accomplished playwright (much more so than I am, anyway). He is a real writer. He has no other job besides writing. How cool is that? The play he is working on in this workshop is whimsical and beautiful and poetic and weird and absolutely entertaining. We were discussing process, and our humble leader posed the question: “Quincy, do you write every day?”  He goes “yup.” For how long? “Three hours.” THREE HOURS. And our workshop leader says he usually spends about two. Or in the summers (he’s a professor) sometimes twice a day, but only two hours at a time. THAT’S FOUR HOURS IN ONE DAY.

I was also thinking about a long discussion a good friend and artistic colleague and I had about becoming an expert. They did a bunch of studies on people who are certifiable experts at things. First chair violinists. Pulitzer Prize winning writers. Prima Ballerinas. And what they had in common wasn’t natural talent or starting at age two-and-a-half, or a crazy intense drive to make it or anything as mystical and unpredictable as that. It was simply that they had spent about 10,000 hours on whatever it is they had perfected.

I write in long spurts. I blame it on the fact that I probably have ADD. That I can’t focus, and I can’t focus, and then I hyper focus. I also procrastinate, and therefore find myself power-writing and power-editing for a deadline. I’m a binge writer. And despite this, I eventually am able to put together dialogue and ideas in a believable and interesting way, and create plays that people find compelling and discussion-worthy. Which is pretty amazing, if you think about it. Especially considering that some people write three hours a day. Then I began to calculate how many days at the rate I’m going it would take to be an expert, and how many it would for Quincy. Though I suppose he’s way past the ten year mark. And  I realized I’ll  probably be dead before I reach ten thousand hours.

So I decided. I have moved across this great country to pursue a writing career. I say it all the time and I’ve been saying it for almost exactly a year. But, now that I’m here, what I actually do is work long-ass ugly hours in a long-ass ugly dress and ugly shoes. I get on the subway before the sun comes up and I get back on it after it has gone down. I avoid doing the dishes and I annoy my boyfriend with my whining and my fatigue. I lament having left my friends and family behind. I go to readings and plays and talk about all the reasons why this play or that scene is shit. I am incredulous as to how so and so got his or her shit play produced and I can’t even get mine read. (I also, for the record, revere the great plays I see and enjoy the new friends I’ve made and the new knowledge I’ve gained, but that isn’t my point.) My point is that the least I can do having moved here as a writer, is to fucking write! How can I ever expect to have any fulfillment as an artist much less success without really committing to this?? I cannot! So my new goal is simple. Write Every Day. Write something. Sit in front of my computer and stare at a scene. Muse. Edit! Write a scene that will never end up in the play. Write a poem. I’m starting small: one hour a day. Even if I don’t accomplish anything in that amount of time. In the words of Quincy, “the muse likes to see you in the chair.”

So here goes. Some days it may be impossible. But I would rather fail at this than make excuses about why I never had any success as a writer. Wish me luck!