Which is extra frustrating because for a while I thought it was finished. But it’s important, as a writer, to be flexible with your work and acknowledge its shortcomings–who was it who said “kill your darlings”? Well, to a certain extent, they were right.
I should be working on my novel right now. Here I go. Though I feel like I owe you a blog post, so here’s a little taste of the book:
“We’re actors—we’re the opposite of people!”
–The Player, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
You have played more roles than you can count. You’ve played girls; you’ve played boys. You’ve had lines and you’ve been silent. You’ve recited three-page monologues. You are a vessel for other people’s words: a cocktail shaker in which scripts are mixed with scenery and lights, shaken and poured over the audience. You are a canvas for makeup and costumes, a chess piece moved across the stage by director after director, a head on which to place a wig. You forget, sometimes, that you are flesh and bone. It seems more likely you’re made of balsa wood: a set piece no one will sit on, made light enough to be carried off after its scene, easy to break apart and repurpose for the next show.