Still bleeding Jan. 23, 1986
There is an old saying that claims that the world can’t be
wrong. If enough people are saying something, then it must be true.
Maybe it’s time for me to reevaluate my priorities.
Dr. Grant invited me to submit something to the playwriting
program at college. Unfortunately, I was working on a TV sitcom and submitted
an episode of that, something that just did not fit well on the stage, even
though the student actors did their best to make it work.
It was only seeing it on stage did all the flaws become
obvious, the wrong timing, breaks for commercials rather than natural breaks a
short play should provide.
It was also so
utterly superficial, a more or less meaningless plot.
For several years, I’ve been obsessed with putting “bones”
into my writing, rather than jazzing it, my stories prior to this rising out of
my poetic sense rather than any fictional structure.
But in seeking to insert structure into my work, I lost an
important poetic essence that made my writing work in the first place.
Awareness of this does not remove the sting of Michael’s
comments or Rita’s, or anyone else brave enough to point out the central flaws.
My “play” -- despite almost solid comic brilliance – proved
an embarrassment to me and no doubt caused me to lose some respect in the eyes
of Dr. Grant who expected better of me, who knows I can do better.
But these are difficult times, and a person has to face his
limitations if he hopes to overcome them or get swept up on pain and failure.
Mary Ann, my poet friend from the west, struggled because
her creativity came out her emotions and she came to a point where she dared
not explore those emotions too deeply. Facing this, she chose to quit.
Roland, my pal from the Morgue at college, claims his
creativity comes from Satan, and has no limitations.
The two Kathy’s in my life, Corcoran and Burcati got what
they wanted from their writing and no longer need to continue.
Even Michael seems a little lost, caught in the midst of a
dry spell where he is exploring other forms of creativity until his inspiration
returns.
So, what about me?
Am I tempted to give up? Not really. But the flaws in the
play are so fundamental it’ll take a massive rewrite, and a reexamination of my
body of other work as well.
After so long writing, I seem to have made so very little
progress. Even this account isn’t totally honest.
I wanted to do a profile here on Michael, exploring what has
gone wrong for him, and why he insists on intimidating me by recommending his
idea of great writers I might emulate, when they are not my idea of great
writers, insulting my writing as well as my taste.
Last night Michael said my adult characters lack depth, and
that even my adolescent characters are inconsistent. This last, he said, was
all right since children are not supposed to be consistent.
Prior to this, he said I have a tendency to be sentimental.
Perhaps, this is true, and may well go to the heart of me as a person.
But obviously if I intend to pursue writing as a career,
these are issues I will have to confront, or surrender the way so many wannabe
writers have.
I feel deflated, my ego bruised, and my talents seem
squandered, something that seems to happen each time I attempt to advance as a
writer, forced to pull back, reevaluate and then plunge ahead still bleeding.
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