I am working on my play again
after a couple of months of avoiding it.
I feel like I am standing in front of a house with no door–
and I am trying to figure out how to get back in.
Today I am going for a long walk around Trout Lake with my characters.
I hope they will speak to me and tell me where the secret door is.
Walking is often the way that I re-connect with my imagination,
when it has been otherwise engaged.
Lately it has been busy scaring me half to death about things.
Life has been complicated in recent months.
But my imagination likes to get in there with the worry,
and exaggerate it–turn it into an epic tragedy.
It likes to get me to rehearse my internal drama
and perform it to myself long after the curtain has
come down on whatever difficulty or annoyance or perceived injustice
I am facing. Yes I am obsessive.
Time to re-direct my unruly imagination and tell
it to stop scaring me– and instead help me write my damn play.
