I yearn to trod the boards. I yearn to be the poet theatrical. I yearn to drink whiskey with the troubadours and to wake among the players. It is in my blood, dear one. And, therefore, I yearn.
A friend of mine hosted a pool party yesterday. There was great food, good friends and wonderful conversation. Every time I'd cross paths with him, he kept saying, "Life is short. Life is short."
Indeed it is.
With headlines involving young lives needlessly taken by gunfire or 30-something celebrities found dead in their hotel room, it makes you stop and think.
It is so easy to say things like, "Don't hold back. Forgive like you have amnesia. Believe like a kid. Love like crazy. Be yourself." It is not quite as easy to put those maxims into practice. I don't really like the person that I've become in the last couple of months. I spend more time than I used to feeling sad, angry and resentful. I used to forgive easily, I used to believe dreams came true, I used to have the courage to love and be myself. I've always thought that with age, wisdom and a ticking clock would come the ability to do those things more freely. I guess I was wrong.
Life is short.
Cory Monteith died alone in his hotel room at 31 years old. His last post on Twitter was about Sharknado.
It made me think. Will the last thing I write be a blog post tinged with negativity and self-deprecation? Will my last Facebook post be a complaint about the heat and humidity? Will my last Instagram be a photo of what I had for lunch? Will my last tweet be about a really bad movie on the Syfy channel?
No. There is no better time to start telling my story than now. It is time to stop holding back, to start forgiving like I have amnesia, to believe like a kid, to love like crazy and to be myself. To become the woman of substance I know I can be.
I think one of the most important assets a writer can have is the ability to be as honest and as candid as possible when they are putting their words into an indelible format. The foundation of great writing lies in the ability to choose the right words and apply them to an imaginative and compelling story that is told with candor. Trust me when I say, that is not a foundation that is easily poured.
My first real accomplishment as a writer was when I wrote a novel about my senior year of high school. I spent night upon night banging away at the IBM Selectric writing what I thought would be the definitive coming-of-age novel. Truth be told, with the passage of 25 years, I know it was fluff. It was more of a therapy session than a story that was of interest to anyone other than myself. Structurally, it was a mess. I remember giving it to my father, a writer and former English professor, and asking him for his feedback. When he gave it back to me, with red ink splattered throughout, it was discouraging. However, I learned valuable lessons from that experience: the importance of the rewrite and the requirement for a sock drawer.
While I can barely remember the details of the story, I do recall one thought that was constantly running through my brain while I was writing it: "What will so-and-so think about that when they read it?"
I still find myself asking that question whenever I am writing. I suppose that is because, with more than four decades behind me, I have more stories based on the experiences I've had and the people I've had them with. I am sure the fact that I've actually had people tell me that I shouldn't write about a particular topic or feeling has also made me a little gun shy. There are times when I even tell myself that I can't write about a particular experience until so-and-so is dead. Then I wonder, did Hemingway censor himself in this manner? Did Tennessee Williams? Or were they just too drunk to care?
It seems to me that a writer needs to be aware of their audience. The question is: how finite a definition of audience should be applied? The other question is: how does the constant awareness of that audience hinder honest writing and is my writing suffering as a result?
There is a specific example that comes to mind for me. One of the stories that I am working on involves a young child, based on someone very close to me, who is questioning their sexuality at a very young age and how they navigate that journey in a world that is progressing yet is still challenged by conservative views and policies. Knowing that I am writer, this child has even asked me to write this story. In a way, I've been given the green light to take the filter off and be completely honest. However, I am reminded of a blog that a mother wrote about her six-year-old son and his crush on Darren Criss. The blog went viral and resulted in her son stating he was gay at the tender young age of seven and subsequently meeting his "boyfriend." While the liberal, equality-for-all side of me cheers this mom on for her open support of her son, I can't help but think about what his life will be like ten years from now. Most likely, he will be a happy, healthy gay man. Clearly, he has awesome parents and a great support system and I applaud that. Hell, I give it a standing ovation. But what if it doesn't work out? What if he becomes that kid whose mom wrote a widely read blog about something that, ultimately, his information to share? What happens then? Will his mother's honesty end up being her downfall? Is there such a thing as too much candor? It's a tough call...
So these are the things that I think about when I am writing. I'm still working on picking at the scab and letting the blood of honesty flow. Because, truth be told, I think I need to do that to make my writing really, really good. I want to say what I want to say and let the words fall out. I wanna see me be brave.
I remember the first time I saw Les Miserables. I would say it was around 1986. I had procured the OLCR on CD and had the score (and every lyric) burned in my brain. The music was so lush and the story, simultaneously heartbreaking and hopeful, so powerful. The moment the first notes of the Overture played, I started to cry. I was so overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment that tears just filled my eyes. Twenty years later, I experienced the same exact thing when I took my then-five-year-old daughter to see Beauty and the Beast. When the lights went down and the magic began, I cried. I cried because I was exposing my daughter to the world of theatre that I had spent my entire life loving.
I'm afraid, however, that somewhere along the way the magic has been misplaced. Or, perhaps, displaced.
Don't get me wrong, I still love theatre. My lifelong tether to the performing arts is one that will never be cut. But something is missing. There is no spark. The indescribable surge of emotion that I once felt is gone.
I suspect that the power of the setback has had more of an effect than I had given it credit for.
For example, in the last year, I've gained at least 20 pounds. I attribute this weight gain to several things: my lack of activity, my love of food and my affinity for a good dirty martini or three. In the last six months, as my emotions began to spiral out of control, I would find solace in sitting at my computer watching seasons of Six Feet Under or Dexter, eating a good meal and drinking away the pain. However, when I stepped on the scale six weeks ago and saw that my weight had surpassed the 170 pound mark, I knew something had to change. So I joined Weight Watchers. I've been humming along pretty well, adhering to the plan pretty closely, a daunting task when you consider how deprived I was feeling without my prosciutto, cheese and adult beverages. I was losing an average of 2 pounds a week, which is right on target with healthy weight loss. Then, two weeks ago, I gained .2 pounds, went on vacation and strayed even more from the plan, only to gain another .2 pounds. Minor setbacks, yes. But setbacks nonetheless.
This is where I make a choice. Do I give in? Do I accept defeat? Or do I stare the scale directly in its digital damnation and say, "Ha! I'll show you!"
In some respects, adopting a healthy lifestyle is comparatively easier than finding creative inspiration. You set goals, you apply disciplined measures and you see results. When there are setbacks, it is pretty easy to pinpoint where you went wrong and to make the appropriate adjustments. However, when you've put yourself out there creatively and taken a couple hits in the gut, it is not as easy to get out of your corner and come out fighting. Sometimes you need to sit one out and take the time to nurse the wounds.
I think about this all the time. Maybe the key to unlocking the barrier can be found in the realization that there shouldn't be any fighting when it comes to creating art. While my instinct is to come back stronger, leaner and meaner and to prove the naysayers wrong, I'm not sure that is where I want my writing to come from. I so desperately want to rediscover the moment that makes my heart burst and my eyes swell with tears. The moment when I feel the need to tell a story deep within me. The moment when I can once again say, "I've got the magic in me."
Until then, I will tend the vessel and prepare it for the return of inspiration, in its purest and most magical form. And I know, in my heart of hearts, it will be well worth the wait.
