writing

me, a name I call myself

Just got back from the second to last session of Dialogue Workshop @ Chicago Dramatists. Again, characters taken from life become or unrecognizable in the mouths of others. This is a relief and a regret. I realize that I am, or have been, writing poetry because I am, or have been, feeling very self-centered, and to write plays requires you to hear other people’s voices besides your own. The plays, the fiction, the all of everything I’ve been writing is all about the third note of the scale. The comments I get on the scene are, not surprisingly, about wanting to hear more points of view.

R&C have returned from the Convergence, bearing photographs and stories. R refuses to believe that I am taking a break from theater. I refuse to believe it, too, but it’s happening anyway. We watch, to great success, CARS projected on an enormous white curtain. God, I love cars. Especially when I don’t have to drive them. Little red cars named Lightning. Cars with big blinking windshield-eyelashes. So cute. So LA right now.

For the first time in years of inactivity, the Random Rhyme Generator in my head turns on, and I hear this: “official / prejudicial.” Later on, “interstitial,” but the first one’s the important one. I only really like them between words of different syllable counts…I used to get these things the way I now get sinus infections. I haven’t had one since this blog was founded. It’s been a long time, been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely lonely lonely lonely ti-ime. Is this because my mother asked me about the location of a lost volume of Lear?

– I don’t have a category for myself on this blog. (I guess the blog is the category for myself.)

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