We Came, We Saw, We Kicked Its...

Production Photo of or what she will. Featuring Monica L. Jones. Photo by Flordelino Lagundino.

First:

My play opened yesterday.

I've said that before. A lot of times.

But the phrase "my play" meant something very different.

It meant that the play I was a part of. It meant the play I was acting in. It meant the play I was directing.

My play this time means something along the lines of my writing baby.

My little nugget of writing creativity debuted.

And it was lovely.

I've been at a loss for words to describe it really.

Except this overused, but apropos line: it was a dream come true.

Really.

A dream.

It still feels like a dream.

I couldn't have been more happy or touched by it all. By the performance, everyone involved...by the friends and family that came from near and far to see it...by absolutely everything.

I...

yeah.

I've already written my thank you blog post, but, um, I am just really thankful and grateful.

--

Second:

As I clicked on the link, I could feel my heart begin to pound. My stomach tightened. My hands began to tingle. My nervous response was in full swing.

I was about to read my first review.

In all of this pomp and circumstance, I've been loathing that moment. The first review moment. The first time I would read someone's review of my writing that I hadn't met beforehand.

Of course, in some ways, I'v already gotten a review.

Every rejection and acceptance of this play was, in some small way, a review.

Of course, I don't have the specific details when receiving the rejection or acceptance.

This time I would.

I opened it and read it quickly.

The review was good. It highlighted the excellent work done by the director Illana and the spectacular cast. It said that script was "strong and clever". She goes on to say: "...it seems to be a reference to our bodies remembering what our brains want us to forget: pain, humiliation, fear and shame. Simpson’s tale loops and eddies, starts and recedes like an angry ocean of pain."

Yup. That sounds right. 

The reviewer thought she was going to a comedy and instead got a Debbie Downer of a play.

Ha. Ha. Hmmm...

Yeah....

The play is dark.

I know that, but I sometimes forget that people aren't drawn to the dark like me. Or aren't as okay with it.

The reviewer, in her last line, says that she needs "a little ray of hope".

And it got me thinking.

Do we always need hope? What does hope look like? Are there different levels of hope? Does the play have any sense of hope?

I think the play has hope, but I asked my dad's assistant and she said she wasn't sure it did. "Then again," she said, "I don't need hope."

So, I guess, this just goes to show that it is a matter of opinion and interpretation...which is further proof that, as with anything, it is probably best you go see it yourself and come to your own conclusions (hint hint, wink wink).

Either way, I am happy with the review.

I wasn't laughed off the writing path.

I could sense that my family genuinely felt proud.

This is enough to keep me going.

To keep me writing.

And that is all that matters.

(Fingers crossed I still feel this way if a more negative review comes out.)

Also, this is what I am referencing in the title of this post: