break

yesterday, she brought a vodka and diet coke in a tonic bottle and poured it into a glass of ice at lunch. at the end of lunch, she asked if i would spoon out the ice.

i happily did it to take my focus away from having to listen to a writer from florida inform us all that he'd read the first chapter of his novel to his writing group, and at the end of it, one of those listening stated in awe, "now that's literature." this man also appeared to have a small pillow stuffed down his pants.

we didn't go to the reading last night because it was sleeting - yes, sleeting. we got to the hotel for the evening dinner and i parked our little rental car (we now have a little rental car) on the corner and i ran in to see where the handicapped entrance was. apparently, this confused the hell out of all the employees and they directed me (as i soon found out) in the exact opposite direction.

i ran back to the car, in the icy rain, and got out the wheelchair from the back. the wind whipped my hair in my face and i couldn't see enough to get the leg supports attached, and then before i could lock it in place, it blew the wheelchair to the curb.

but i got it locked.

aunt liz got out of the car and we both froze. our hands froze and the wind burned our ears.

we went the direction i was told only to find a dead end alleyway.

luckily, heading back to the main door, a gentleman stopped and helped aunt liz walk up to the main door and another man helped me get the wheelchair in the building.

again, it's may.

we got to the table and i got liz a vodka tonic and things felt better.

the plan was to go from there to a reading, but luckily when we got back in the car, liz said it would be better to just go back to the hotel and i couldn't agree more.

she had a screwdriver and i had a bloody mary.

it's still cold and windy today, about 40 degrees, but at least there's no icy rain.

we have about an hour before aunt liz has another rehearsal and then a brief rest before a three-hour gala performance and dinner. i have no idea if either of us will make it through.

worthy

i read the bios of the special guests of the theatre festival i'm going to with my great aunt. they are extremely intimidating and each has their broadway debut listed - either as an actor, writer, director, or designer.

this week could go either way, but as the optimistic narcissist, i predict the following shall occur:

i have a major meltdown that i'm not talented/passionate/dedicated enough as a writer and will never be more than a weekend writer who tries (and fails) to achieve anything with her work.

i cry.

i question everything in my life that has brought me to going back to a normal office job (and failing at that) and wonder if i shouldn't just try more as a writer.

i notice the ugly bedspread of the hotel room and feel it's a perfect description of my life's work.

i attempt to be casual around the special guests, while at the same time desperate for their approval.

i keep up drink for drink with my great aunt and become hysterically drunk and make a fool of myself.

i vomit publicly.

i burn bridges even before they're built.

i get nothing accomplished.

i embarrass my aunt liz and she regrets even making the trip.

what next

here's what i don't understand...what is wrong with me?

true, my career past looks like i'm either insane or on the run from the law, but i'm also well-educated and i think it kind of appears that i work hard. but then, most of my resume, or at least the only consistency in my resume, is my film work which no one knows how to place. i've explained to temp agencies that, in the film world, i usually do the accounting, but somehow that still means nothing to them.

but maybe the truth of it all is that i just suck.

in the past four months, i've sent my resume in, physically mailed in resumes and cover letters, filled out countless online databases with my information, gone to two temp agencies, and repeatedly expanded my chosen field of interest. nothing works. the only positions i've even gotten called in to interview for are commission-based insurance sales, of which i didn't even apply. i don't know if i'm over-qualified or under-qualified, too educated, or educated too much in useless subjects.

the only thing i do know is that it makes me feel like complete ass.

and like i'm an idiot.

but sunday, after watching 'to sir, with love' i decided that my true calling is to be a teacher. in the past two days, i've been lost in thought about myself changing people's lives, out of nowhere i quoted, "i'm in my prime," as close to maggie smith as i could, and i've wondered (sometimes accidentally aloud) which poems i'll use in class to best represent sonnets, haikus, etc.

i went online yesterday to apply and again, the thought crossed my mind that i'm over-educated to do absolutely nothing. it requires certification (fine), but then to get certified, i have to show teaching experience.

i graduate in about a month with a masters degree in creative writing. i have loved every moment of it, although i'm grateful to be on the verge of finishing. when i look back to four years ago when i committed myself to graduate school, i thought for a long time about getting an mba instead. it was actually a really difficult decision. and i remember finally deciding on an mfa because i thought it would make me happier.

...now i'm not so sure.

yes, i'm glad i got the education and i learned more than i thought possible and met some of the most amazing people who walk the planet...but what the hell do i do next?

fin again...

i rewrote the end of my script. again.

i can never tell if what i'm writing is trite or interesting or obvious or subtle or anything. but i think this new version may be hopeful (hopefully).

but it might also change another five times.

fin

will definitely have to do another draft and work out some major details - research, etc., but i am proud to announce that the script is done. d-o-n-e...for now.

hmm...

lots of work due tomorrow.

ending

this is way, way, way too over-dramatic to actually write and express so please forgive me, but...i really hate writing the death of a character.

in the mud

been working on a script for school (oh yeah, i'm in grad school), and have rewritten the first forty pages about five times. but, finally - finally - i passed the midpoint and the end is in sight. scenes are outlined, character arcs defined, and all i have to do is write. clear sailing, right? um, noooo.

i sit down to write and nothing happens.

completely stuck.

who knew completion was so terrifying?

ugh...frustrating.