The Bloody Doors Off

I keep calling him Skeeter in my head, even though Tweeter works better.

Latest earworm.

Almost sparked an idea.

Took me back to improv days. One game to play, if you had a musician accompanying, was Make a Song. It’s what it sounds like. Improv = making shit up, Improv Song = making shit up, but with a beat and rhyming.

And this song. This song.

I swear.

I can imagine these guys were just goofing in the recording studio when someone laid down a guitar track and Dylan began to tell a story.

And those are the best songs: when they have a story.

Stories.

I love telling stories.

When that door opened. With my first play. Which we all know was done in a panic because I’d gotten into the Toronto Fringe and all I had was a (shitty) title.

I struggled. The only play that really came naturally was A Song For Rachel, and only after events of October 2013.

When I discovered Sing For Your Supper and Toronto Cold Reads, that’s when my creative mind cracked wide open.

And I wrote some great stuff.

There was a piece inspired by an actual improv event some years back, which became a play within a play involved me and Marlo, as ourselves, within its 5 pages. Incredibly meta. And I swear, it can only be performed that one time.

Then you should agree with me. The scene was a circle jerk. Better to provide the mercy killing it deserves and move on.

Go Long, by me

IYKYK, know what I mean?

Sometime during the Covid shutdown, I lost it. Whatever spark I had, that thrill of telling a complete story no longer than 15 pages.

It left.

And then I have this blog. I was writing it in. A lot.

Until that evaporated.

Granted, I seem to be slowly finding that voice again.

Curious to see what language it speaks.