How to explain? First, describe. I’m pretty emotional this morning. I’m a little down. I’m a little cranky. I’m totally whiny. Why? I had a reading last night. And it went well. But, it didn’t go PERFECTLY. I got FEEDBACK. Feedback that suggested that I had work to do. TRUE, I know I have work to do. There are things in the script that I know that I need to work on, the next step in the evolution of the script, I know. I just had to get to this draft in order to see what I needed to do for the next one.
A small part of me, I guess, was thinking… they won’t see that… they won’t suggest areas that need work… they are just going to love it…
Last night, during the feedback, I felt good. Upbeat. There were laughs when there needed to be, there were silences when there weren’t supposed to be any laughs–I don’t know, does that mean the drama was working? And like I just said, I felt good during the feedback, I got what I need, I got what I didn’t know I needed. A couple of great nuts and bolts, “Yes, that is something I can fix by doing x, y, and z.” Great.
But. This morning. For some reason. This nagging… this… voice in my head…. saying, “But you really wanted them to love it.” Which is true. Which put me on the couch. Which lead to this confession. I knew going in that the script needed work, and the audience, who DID enjoy it, who found it INTRIGUING, agreed. But, I think I was hoping that the things that I know needed work on they wouldn’t see, that they would be BLINDED and DAZZLED by the sheer hilarity and velocity and, dare I say it, at times audacity of the script…
That was totally naive on my part. It’s the seven year old inside of me. The same one that keeps writing plays. The same one that comes up with the weird ideas, the funny lines. He’s the one that’s trying to EXPRESS. And of course he wants to be loved. Without any conditions.
Which is sorta unlikely. Even on my best of days I no longer look like I’m seven years old. I might dress like one, but I can assure you, I don’t get carded when I buy booze. So, the outside world is going to treat me and my work like I’m a grown up artist (as it should) which means I need to do the protecting, I need to take care of that seven year old and say… “They laughed, they were moved, and they were excited. The rest? That stuff they were talking about, it’s just homework, to make the play better.”
And, the response will be, “HOMEWORK!? GAWD. I HATE homework.” And tiny feet stomp away.
But, that’s a problem for another blog entry.