The Bloody Doors Off

I’ve been sitting on an email for days.

Forwarded from my wife. From a person who’s been involved in theatre for close to, if not more than, 50 years.

They’d read A Song for Rachel, as they’re acting in it for Alumnae Theatre’s CyberReads programme.

“Just finished ‘A Song for Rachel’ … WOW!  I teared right up.   I read a lot of scripts so I’m pretty fortified against shmaltz.  This story could easily have been sentimental to the point of manipulation,  but it’s just great. The humour is genuinely funny, which is not often the case in many scripts I read.”

I’ve been sitting on it.

And given who it’s from.

I’m freaking out about it.

It’s a huge deal.

It’s also a long way from the Fringe show I’d put up in the late 90s/early aughts where the reviewer tore me to shreds and seemed to take delight in pointing out that I was from Scarborough.

I have trouble accepting praise.

I downplay it.

Because I’m worried someone will then say “Psych!”

So when you’re paying me a compliment.

If I don’t gush over it.

I’m struggling to accept it as true.

It’s a process.