On Being Integral

Right. So I am thrust back into writing.

But the writing hasn't happened.

The play is sitting next to my desk. Waiting.

Instead, I enlisted the help of my three writing buddies, asking them to tear the play apart so that I could get cracking.

Except, I can't really get cracking because in three weeks I am dragging my butt to NYC for a two day workshop/reading extravaganza.

Now, I've been present in these workshops. But never as the playwright. Never as anyone really integral to the story.

Usually, I am the little peon who, occasionally, notices something everyone else missed. (In one workshop, I watched as they cut what I thought was a crucial plot point. The next day I mentioned it. Lo and behold, no one realized that the plot point was cut.).

Now I have to, like, listen. Take notes. Edit. Answer questions.

I'm already terrified.

But also excited.

June is going to be full of crazy rewrites though, isn't it?
I'm going to get even less sleep than I do now, aren't I?

Hmmm...

(P.S. Have you ever looked up the origin of the word, 'peon'? It makes me not want to use it anymore.)