by Cameryn Moore
Another piece came to me a few days ago, about the play that I’m working on. It’s not much, just a scrap of motivation and backstory, but it dropped in, and shifted everything around it, and jolted into place and got clearer.
I don’t know if that’s just me taking a break or if my brain knows that I don’t need this full piece until 2015 or if, god forbid, I’m going down the wrong path after all and this is what the wrong path feels like, but that seems to be the way this play wants to be born: slowly, and with lots of stops and starts, accompanied by doubts.
I’m … happy and confident, for the most part, particularly in the issues and areas that she and I share in common, around body acceptance and intelligence and relationships and sex. I’m not saying I’m fully self-actualized, or that I think I don’t have any “writing” left to do in my own life. But I’m good. I’m great some days.
But this is not about my life, really. It’s about hers, my character. And I guess I have to give her the chance to have those experiences, too, even if I think I know how they will or should turn out.