On Tuesday evening, I left the all-night restaurant alluded to in my most recent post, convinced that I’d somehow managed to hook up with a very talented batch of like-minded Writers. I gave each of the six other participants a copy of my Scene One, and received from each of them a chapter of the novels they’re currently writing.
My main reservation is that I’m the only playwright in the bunch. Also, since I’m a musical playwright, there are song lyrics as well as dialogue and stage directions strewn about my manuscript. This differentiates me even further from the novelists in my midst. Moreover, they all seem to be writing fantasy or science fiction–which of course is to be expected. But my work is intended to deal with social issues such as classism, and to paint a picture not often seen of the Homeless Phenomenon in America.
However, this doesn’t mean that their feedback will be of no value to me. It only means that I’m afraid to receive it. After all, our commonalities are greater than our differences. I look forward to receiving input on plot, character development, clarity of content, and the like. What I dread is that someone might object to some of my lyrics, without being aware of the type of music that accompanies them, since they won’t be hearing the music, but only reading the words. This has happened before in the past, and it has put me in an awkward position.
Still, they’re all very intelligent, highly motivated people. I’m sure that whatever happens at our next meeting, the fact that I’m finally convening with others of my ilk, and no longer hiding from the public world in stubborn isolation, is bound to reap more benefits than detriments in my creative life.
Otherwise, I’ve been busy with work and church (which in my case are very closely related, since I work at a church). I’ve also been engrossed in some personal matters for the past few days. So, while I did succeed in finishing Scene Four, as reported in this post, I’ve not yet begun to take a stab at Scene Five. But I can feel it starting to simmer within me, somewhere down there. It’s a vague but very real sensation: an undeniable sense that I’m about to burst into another creative binge. It feels as though something inside me is “percolating” — or, more accurately, incubating. It’s almost as though I can feel the Muse approaching. If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll kiss me, as she did the similarly exhausted Writer in the charming little picture up above. Well — here’s hoping.