Write or.... die!?

Oh man. Self-pep talk from my first Write or Die session. 794 words in 11 minutes.



10/5/10

So there I was, sitting at the computer waiting for November. It sounds funny, to wait for a month to begin, you know; time passes slowly when you wait for it and quickly when you're not paying attention so it generally seems more logical to not pay attention and just LET time be what it is, which is relative to the individual person anyway, isn't it? The point is. I was waiting for November. Things are supposed to finally HAPPEN to me in November. Life has been just one long grace period since graduation. The summer was about fixing myself up to get a real job (which was accomplished after a minor depressed phase of me sitting at home in front of the internet, still in pajamas at four in the afternoon with three mugs of half drunk tea and a half eaten sandwich on a paper towel -- not even a plate -- next to me at the desk when my roommate would come home that night) and enjoying said job (which was easy since the job deals in fashion resale and the people are outgoing and fun and generally very nice aside from the occasional crazy coo-coo for cocoa puffs type of customer that we get every other day) but also about stabilizing myself in the idea that acting will not come as a given thing anymore. Being in school for theatre meant that to a certain degree I would be guaranteed something every now and then: a directing scene, a one act play, a staged reading, what have you. But also the mainstage and studio productions were available to me. But being OUTSIDE of an academic program where I am known as an individual with great talent and drive and intelligence and vast passion for the theatrical arts in general and as a whole is very different and quite difficult. This summer was about me driving myself forward, pushing myself to send out my information for auditions, go to the auditions, and fight for the parts. It was about me getting used to the nerves of a pre-audition prep, the anxiety of navigating the Chicago Public Transportation System on my own time and getting there IN TIME for the auditions, and killing the material, forcing the auditors to bend to my will and appreciate me for thirty to sixty seconds as a real human being with drive and talent and intelligence. Even if it was only the thirty seconds in which they listened to me, and even if it didn't last past that one night, that one moment. A lot of the auditions meant nothing. But some of them were really invested in, some were intriguing and entrancing, and some I really wanted. Some, as usual, and totally unshockingly, I cried over afterwards. Some I got called back for. But I still haven't been cast, and that's what I'm waiting for. Maybe in November, "IT" will happen to me. Maybe. But all I know is I have plans for November, and even if theatrical endeavors don't take a part in my life for months to come, November will be mine. November will mean something great. And I will, once and for all, prove to myself that I am a real live breathing passionate driven intelligent human being with strength of will and discipline of body enough to complete a hitherto unknown, unwritten story that is directly delivered from the depths of my own psyche via dreamscape, and I will produce it as a work of art, raw and uncut, and hand it to the world on December the First, 2010, without shame or consequence for the 50,000 words I am about to embark upon. And others will read it after I have written it, and people will be amazed by my creativity and strength, as I have always hoped that someone out there would be. I know it is in my blood to do this, and it is in my heart and head to complete the task at hand. I am ready now. I have been writing my whole life, and here I finally go, to create a new tale for the world to think of and remember and discuss and retell. I will give something new to my friends, my family, and people I've never met before. I will be a National Novel Writing Month participant, winner, and author. I will win. I will cross the finish line with miles to spare and words to give as gifts as easily and thoughtlessly as flowers or balloons to children at a carnival. I will ride this beast, and it will be tamed, without caution or hesitation. I will love my novel. And it will love me too. That is the story.