Doing much better than when i last checked in. finished my draft of The Play That Was Lost yesterday at an airport terminal – again. (incidentally wondering if The Play That Was Lost is a better title than the one I’m currently working with.)
fuck yes
there are few good feelings like the exhilaration of finishing a draft of a play but this time i feel tremendous relief to be moving on to other projects – some short form, completing that screenplay, etc.. And although i have little justification for feeling this way, i’ve been scolding myself for months for taking too long and doing too much work on what is essentially a first draft. my gut is telling me that i must have done something wrong to be trudging along in the mud and obsessing over and incessantly tweaking this silly draft in a way i’ve never obsessed or tweaked before.
Am i being a little mean to myself? To expand on some themes Chiara touched on in her last post… How can a young writer ever measure how successfully they are doing their job? by the number of completed works? by hours spent plugging away? cups of coffee consumed? What?
as unanswerable a question as this should be, there are always those with strong opinions indeed:
icbins
jraemaldonado
lbferrel
mannycbins
