Saturday at about seven thirty I am chaining myself to my computer and not leaving it until I have a decent ten minute play or six in the morning, whichever comes first.
I'm participating in the Play in a Day Experience (experience is my tacked on descriptor) here at NewUni. I will be the only girl out of seven participants (no kidding when Prof. Gandalf said it was a department of straight white males) and I think I will also be the only one who hasn't done this before. No pressure.
If I don't think about it, I'm fine. When I do think about it, I realise that I must take the old No Shame mantra in hand and just "dare to fail", but unfortunately that desire is overpowered by the little voices all saying "What the fuck are you thinking?"
Where the hell did all that cocky self esteem I had in middle school go? In middle school, I was hot shit. I knew it was all a pointless game and all I had to do was survive, so anything I did was filled with a "who the hell cares" additude. I have a feeling that high school happened and I learned to care far too much for things.
Really, I shouldn't worry. I write all my stuff in the day before it's due. Giving myself twelve hours to write ten pages is more than I would usually allot, so I should be better than fine and actually get some sleep. The last class assignment I did turned out OK, once I got the surrealist tendencies all worked out. A scene about a man who goes crazy in an airport started out as a scene between myself and the voice inside me (I have a tendency to call her Sarah, she's me, but as a character.), to a guy standing in the midst of loaves of flying French bread, then moved on to a scene between Matisse (yes, the "ceci n'est pas un pipe" guy) and Freud.
Actually, that's a little creepy for two reasons. I abandoned both topics because they were silly and I didn't know enough about the last two guys, but I did a little research and discovered that surrealist Matisse painted a sky filled with flying French bread and that surrealism is, in many ways, hand in hand with Freudian analysis. So, coming up with all of that in my own little head (I'm sure I never knew it before), creeps me out. Maybe I should've written that scene instead.