...so, i guess i feel deflated more than sincerely disappointed. i think i always knew what i was getting. i can't say my theatre meet was an anticlimax, just 'cause it wasn't a dream come true.
she said a lot of people out there think they can write. she said most can't. she said i can.
she says making it is a tortuous process. she says, whatever else, i have to keep on writing, i'm 'onto something'.
she's gonna read everything i write from now on - she wants them sent straight to her. this is the literary manager of a major theatre, half-swaddled in a hoody, saying as long as she's in the biz, she's never read anything quite like PopCult. which is the rarest compliment she gets to give. she's reading evil is fake this week, is looking forward to it - will get back to me ASAP.
and all this is positive - is genuine progress - probably marks the point at which i at last zero in on a career as a pro writer, set a course for a genuine real world break - it puts me on track, it gives me a goal - she says as long as i don't stop now, she thinks rewards are coming my way. rationally, i guess that's more than satisfactory - this was, after all, the first full-length play i've ever mailed anybody. but when a dream - even a stupid daydream, a best case scenario - disappears, and there's nothing except more realistic dreams to replace it... momentarily...
i don't know. i know i sound like a self-help book.but i'm sitting in an empty carriage watching the light drain from the sky - blue to deeper blue - over black masses of marching trees, fields peeling past - i'm pulling into some nowhere station, digging the symbolism...
and i feel temporarily empty when i think of all the work, for such a tiny step. but i know, when the disappointment subsides, when i can think straight, a tiny step in the right direction is enough - so long as it leads to another.
i'm on track. that's the important thing, here. i'm not lost at sea, any more, i'm not drifting.