Google searches: Creative work is torture
My household is quiet. Both I and my significant other are writing a play.
We’d both decided we need to be selfish, so after breakfast/conversation we don’t even look at each other in passing. I’m locked away in my room, venturing out for coffee.
I feel the need to talk, talk, talk, but don’t have it in my heart to distract him. Hence blog.
It’s a perfect, sunny day. My characters are on a birthday party from hell, living their youth, embarrassment and strange sexual choices. They are flawed, scared, freaked and about halfway through the play.
I need to, like, write another 20 pages. For Tuesday.
It’s not impossible, it’s just scary….
I keep writing sex scenes and realizing that every time I push myself further, there is more. There’s further I can go. I can still be more honest, and these characters have more to give. And this is me. This is how I wanted to write, always. I’m finally doing it. It’s really fucking scary.
…. but exhilarating, too. Just like anything sexy carries that element of not knowing what’s gonna happen. I am suspended between ideas, work and deadline, focusing them into output. My friends are amazing, supporting, reading, helping, but in the end there’s only me. Wait for me on the other side – I’m tunneling through my subconscious until further notice….