The Bloody Doors Off

I met with my dramaturge today. I was nervous beforehand. No idea what to expect. And I decided to take above-ground transit which was almost a mistake. Took the Carlton streetcar to Broadview, with a plan to take the King car down to Yonge street, and a quick walk to the Marche. But of course I had to wait 15 minutes for the stupid King car, and then a piece of wood — WOOD — got stuck in the wheel housing. I swear, if I didn’t believe in the randomness of events, I’d be paranoid.

Got there with 1 minute to spare, and based on the yellow jacket, recognized him instantly. We got inside, grabbed drinks and found a table in the back to talk shop.

The next 60 minutes were, in a word, awesome. I got some great feedback about the play’s strengths, discussing how I came up with the idea (and how it got insanely better when it started to become more personal), and best of all, things I could do write to help improve it.

And this gets to pushing buttons. Because I need to push the character’s buttons harder in the play. And in turn, that means I’ll be pushing my own buttons. Facing uncomfortable truths. For example, he mentioned that it’s near impossible for characters to smoke on stage these days, and asked if I could find another avenue. And one presented itself, which opened a few more doors, narratively. Which digs into my past, and pain. And I can’t be afraid of that fire. Just like I’ve gotta write here daily, to work through my issues; I can’t be afraid of exploring it in the play as well.

All hell might break loose. I might break loose.

I’m excited. And I’m really, REALLY, fucking scared.