Wednesday, May 25, 2005

f. that fire-farting beast
I've written a few plays. I even went to school and got a degree that makes me sound a lot smarter than I am. Some of these plays were good. The good ones were lucky enough to find homes with actors, a director, and more or less, audiences. The bad ones were spared production, and are saved in hiding spaces for the sole purpose of humbling myself now and then. (Nothing, however, beats the short story I wrote in seventh grade about racism. The theme? Racism is bad -- who knew? Man, I wish I could find that now).

Since graduating a few years ago, I switched to screenplays. Well, some pitches and half-finished ideas, but technically one screenplay. Not much to show for three years of being in the real world, I know. In my defense, it's become a slobbering, ten-armed beast of a story that makes daily threats on my life. It also farts fire. You can see why it's not done. But damn that bitch, I'll finish 'er off by year's end if it kills me.

Recently I started another play, which was mildly terrifying. Not for any real reason really, I just kinda forgot how to do it. I was all, "What are these words? And these characters, what do they do?". I was freaked out by not having written a complete thing in so long. Luckily, I know some actors and a director who don't think I'm necessarily completely terrible, and liked some ideas I had, and wanted to workshop them with me.

So that's what we've been doing for the past month. I bring them new pages, they read them aloud, I ask questions, they ask questions, and somehow, the play gets written. It's pretty damn fun, this process. We're trying to get it into a festival, but if not, it'll be done in some form or another. And hey, you're all invited. I hear there's a kegger at Fatso's after!

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