I try not to write about writing this. I want to put down thoughts clearly as possible without thinking about who might be reading this or what might be running through their heads as they do so. I glance over my posts to make sure there aren’t too many glaring spelling or grammatical mistakes. There’s a voice that always whispers how this isn’t very interesting and no one’s gonna care.
The inner critic will say the same things as I push through to a first draft of something. Or as I struggle to get off-book. In general, when there’s a level of risk. I call my inner critic Roy after this doofus of a theatre critic I once knew. He wrote his reviews before seeing things. I wrote a solo show called Mahamudra about all the shitty things Roy says to me. People don’t like thinking about that sort of thing. Maybe that’s what I should say when people ask what kind of plays I write. “I write about things people don’t like thinking about.” It ends in a preposition and will probably set me up for ridicule but there it is.
There’s a lot I don’t write about for one reason or another. I’m not out to hurt anyone or offend really. Not intentionally anyway. Usually it’s just spurts of nonsense as I grope my way through the dark. Even years ago when I kept journals, I’d try to make it so someone could read them and know what was going on without me explaining them. It’s never the full picture.
Some stuff is too navel-gazing or boring. Who cares?
What if Mom or Dad reads it?
I think I need to take my George Carlin pill and say, “fuck it.”
So, um, fuck it. That felt better.