Adventures in Commission

Had my first script meeting this week.

There is a given when it comes to writing in any form, but especially this one where the life of your words depends on many other artistis: your judgements about quality and progress will always be misguided, even when they've been refuted numerous times by important, experienced sources. In order to compose a play it takes, bare minimum, an instinct. An instinct regarding the potential of your ideas. This instinct will carry you through the ineluctable barrage of doubt and garrulous analysis that you will heartlessly pelt at yourself.

I'm on the right track. Not only that; I received the same comment from my advisors that I have been granted on other occassions: my writing is beautiful, well crafted, rich.

Has this stuck in my brain? Yes. Does it outweigh the doubt? Questionable. Can it foster that vital instinct? It appears that I'm still writing . . .

My critical faculties put me through a gauntlet. The consistent danger is that I won't come out writing. If I don't turn back and involve myself in other pursuits, then I often welter between the various hypotheses my brain can cook up. Is this language human enough? Is the action dynamic enough? Are you subconsciously robbing from other writers? Is this story engaging? Where is the realism? Where is the experimentation? Where is the fantasy? I'm fortunate if I can still produce words when it's finished. When all is said and done, if I do--if the words manage to grow and vigorously--then maybe the whole fucked-up process is what drives my writing beyond an indulgent hobby, toward a craft.