A reading last night of my new play: “SEX or Ode to the Hypocrisy of the Rainbow Nation.” A quiet esteemed group of actors, directors, theatre makers all gathered at my house to read, eat, and discuss.
Lots of people that came loved it – they hadn’t seen a process like this, where a writer opens up the work so early to dialogue. People were brilliant in their insight: they know me and let me have it.
I walk away bruised and battered (as usual) although heartened by the sense of community. The biggest critique being that I am now a technically excellent writer – “very clever” people said, but they miss me in my writing – Where am I? What am I risking? Where is my heart?
“Where’s the blood on the page” a friend says to me the morning after. And I’m kind of shocked – in many ways I feel like I live so openly and honesty, although from this reading I realize, maybe I am open to others, but maybe I risk less now of showing myself. Hurt, burned, perhaps I’ve retreated. Another friend says “yes, it’s like the shutters go up, you do that very quickly.” I didn’t realize.
I’m challenged to open back up – to put myself out there again in my work. Damn, this writer life is something else. I never knew it would challenge my personal issues so directly. Blood on the page . . . .