Sometimes We Make It. Sometimes We Fake It.

Andrew McMahon had this on his blog a couple months ago. It is an excerpt from a journal of Bukowski's:

"I write as a function. Without it I would fall ill and die. It's as much a part of one as the liver or intestine, and just about as glamorous."

Now, I don't feel that way. And, for that reason, I have always known my career as a writer is unlikely. But, I do love to write. Clearly. I mean I keep updating this ding-dang blog, don't I?

I finished my play this week. My capstone of college. It's not done, but it is a complete piece as of Monday. Something I find so ridiculous about making art is how it really doesn't mean anything unless it means something to someone else. Like, a great basketball player, let's say my roommate Grinz can play, and get baskets, and it's clear she is fabulous. But, I could write a great play, and people might not like it. Not so black and white. I mean, one of my favorite plays of all time--Faith Healer--tanked on its first run. For no reason.


Where all the "magic" happens. My room Spring 2010.

To be frank, I am proud of what I have written so far. Two people have read it and approved. That's a great start. A great great start. But, I have to present this to my community. It's on the calendar. People will attend. I am not excited at all. They may hate it. I am working up the courage slowly to stand and say, "Well...this is what I made. Who knows if it Good. What is "Good"? Just sit there and watch."

Count-Down: T-Minus Four Weeks.

And even if my voice comes back again, maybe they'll be no one listening. Even if I find the strength to stand, doesn't mean I won't go missing.