My plays are part time-capsule, part therapy, and part vision. They typically come in spurts and then are hammered out over a long amount of time and by the end of the process I barely recognize the Emilie that began writing the piece. As my characters grow I am forced to grow with them. This is good. This is disconcerting. This is the creative process.
A process that, for the past few months, had stagnated. Those damn throughactions. Very recently reconnecting with a friend and some useful comments from her revived my sense of purpose and helped me articulate some of the obstacles that had muddied up my sight. Now I’m writing like a fiend. I have hope again! I have a purpose! My characters have WANTS! And most importantly, I am confident that I will have a portfolio that will be ready to be submitted when applications are due.
I am once again very happy with where I am in life, but I admit that my friends who have taken their giant leaps (or are taking them at 7am tomorrow morning–best wishes!) inspire me with a constant yet occasionally bittersweet drive. I am on the right path for me, I am confident of that, but there are very brief flashes when I wish I could just hurry things up a little. The world laughs at me of course, and the moment passes almost before the thought has completed. When have I ever done anything quickly? Never. I have always been the “slow and steady” kind of gal. A lot of hard work, a lot of life changing things around on me, ending in an overwhelming amount of positive results. When I really sit down and think about it I have never failed at anything I have truly put in the work for. I’ve also never just been given anything, and I am ok with that.
Isn’t it delightful just how full of possibility life is? I can do a lot of good work and make positive changes where I am right now, and when I am finally ready to move on I will do so with no regrets. I’m not a regretful kind of gal.
As friends and family spread out across the country and globe I realize more and more just how small this earth is. Goodbyes don’t really carry much weight with me–if I’ve learned one thing in this year since college it is that no one can really say when the last goodbye is the final goodbye. I’m not sentimental. I’m not very affected by the passage of time. I miss friends when they are away when I remember to, but I don’t pine. It’s just the way I’m built: I focus very clearly on what is precisely in front of me and all the peripheries blur together.
I know I’m a lot to deal with as a person, as a friend. My focus has always been narrow with me at the forefront. I care about others of course and give as I can, but not by sacrificing myself. I love to teach and to help others become self-sufficient but I am horrible at empathizing emotionally. I understand other people’s feelings intellectually, but I do not feel with them except when it comes to fictional characters. Those, I empathize with and understand and live with. This is a strength and a weakness, this is intrinsically me.
So while I do my best here I don’t really feel separated from those who are important to me elsewhere. A few months, a year, five years or a day on the way to a goal or a script or a move or a reunion don’t seem so different to me. Who cares about distance? That’s what the internet and telephones are for. Who cares about time? That is what living is for.