Bitter Gloating

Writing sucks.

I have great ideas, themes, structures, nuance. All of that lives vibrantly in my brain. And then it all evaporates when I get near a computer. It evaporates painfully slowly if I try to write long hand. I scrawl as quickly as I can, trying to capture what's in my head, but my mind goes almost completely blank before I can finish.

It's a gorgeous Saturday, and I've sworn that the entire day will be devoted to writing. I have a piece due for class this week and the beginnings of a poem that I can work on, as well as four or five pieces from class that I need to critique.

In the past, when I've made these vows, I allow myself to be distracted by the television, laundry, the Internet, etc. However, to help with that distraction problem, and as a graduation gift to myself I bought a laptop. I'm typing this now at the little coffee shop near my house. The problem is that it has free Internet connections so while fewer, the distractions still exist. Drat!

But, I have got a good start on my piece for class and I'm allowing myself to post to my blog as sort of a reward. I can see outside, and I tried sitting out there but the glare makes the screen impossible to see.

As I approach graduation I begin to have doubts that I have anything to write about that anyone would want to read. I've only had a total of six pieces submitted and rejected in the past five years -- hardly a definitive indication that I have no talent or voice. I'm sort of taking it on faith that the fact I'm going to graduate with honors says something about my abilities, but I'm not exactly sure what.

When I first started acting, the second show I did was an original musical. When I landed that show my father had died only a year before, I'd spent a terrifying eight weeks unemployed during which time I also had to find a new apartment, and I was coming to terms with my sexuality. The last thing I needed to be doing was an original musical where tensions are already high. I won't go into the gory details here because I don't really know how to tell the story without looking like a complete ass. At one performance I had a bit of meltdown and I ended up being fired from the show. It was completely deserved.

In the show was an actress who I really liked. She was good and funny and she seemed to like me. Ultimately she was the one who had me fired. Several years later I was hired as a replacement for a long-running show and I had to work opposite her, complete with a love scene. I was mortified. It was a large cast and I found a corner behind the costume rack where I took up residence. I spoke to almost no one backstage and never to her. My reputation as a flake was sealed.

The actress went on to relative success in Chicago theatre. For a few years after that last show with her our paths would cross. Sometimes she'd acknowledge me, sometimes she wouldn't. As her reputation grew, so did her list of professional connections. Whether it was in my head or not, I was always convinced that if she found out I was working somewhere she felt it was her duty to let the director know how difficult I was. That label of being a difficult actor is a terminal affliction. In spite of the fact that I was regularly cast and had a pretty impressive resume, I felt like I had a scarlet D emblazoned on my chest. I'd try to cover it, but no matter what I did I knew it was just a matter of time before I'd be discovered.

Then one day I decided that whether or not I was difficult, that fact was that that's who I was/am. I might as well embrace that fact. I'm smart. I have opinions and ideas and fortunately as I get older I'm learning if and when I should express them. That, I'm afraid is something I'm always going to struggle with.

Still, I regret the friendship that I might have destroyed with that meltdown. I read the actress's name in a review this week. She's performing on a very prestigious stage in a very well-received production. Most actors would sell their mother's for this opportunity. I've not seen the show and I'm not likely to. But I'm sure she's brilliant, and I really wish if I did see it I could walk up to and say that I'm really sorry. At this point she may not even recognize me and I'm sure that if we did speak she'd be "professional/gracious." I guess that is what is meant by regret. I'd just want to tell her that I'm sorry we couldn't have been friends.

And that I got to that stage fifteen years before she did.