Aside from Ryan dropping two non-essential paragraphs (they should probably be cut anyways), and a smaller house than opening, we avoided the sophomore slump and ran a near-perfect show. It had energy and confidence; it really came into its own, not that I had the opportunity to watch my show. Actually, I could look away from the board and script to watch Max speed toward Roubaix, toss a fig Newton across stage, or scramble off stage to squat behind an RV. But I was rather focused on the script, the base material, the framework for which I was responsible and remained irrevocable attached, though I hardly recognized the words as my own and could only on rare occasions recall ever writing a particular phrase or passage; there it was in my hands, yet so distant—replaced (for the better) with the living, breathing performance. And that, after all, was what I’d actually envisioned.
So, we nailed it. And off into another night of celebration.
(Admittedly, I’d become rather enamored with the idea of banging out an hour show every night, to be followed by skulking around bars, friends and strangers buying me drinks as I talked on and on about my play. Yes, Hemingway…or Fitzgerald, or Kerouac. That's the life: a strung-out, washed-up alcoholic writer by 25. Hmm…actually, let’s hold off on that “career path” for now.)
No comments:
Post a Comment