What I can’t write to
My daughter and I are visiting my mother in southern New Jersey through next Wednesday. And I’m on deadline for a short play I’m submitting for an event next month.
My plan has been to finish the play today and send it off. My daughter asked me where I was going to work. I told her it didn’t matter, as long as people didn’t talk to me. My mother and my daughter were sitting up in the kitchen playing Rummikub, so I sat down in the living room with my laptop.
And sure enough, they came in to sit next to me and work on a puzzle.
And for my mother to ask me the same thing several times (she’s 89, with a strong need to know things).
And for my nephew to start hammering something onto the outside of the house by a window within my view.
But none of that was stopping me. It actually reminded me that I wrote one of my best plays — widely remarked upon by friends and even judgmental relatives as one of my best plays — while smoking a cigar and drinking wine and talking to an actor at the same time. And I usually write my plays while playing music. I’m used to tuning things out.
So I was feeling unstoppable, and pulling the play into the station as it were, when my mother went downstairs and turned on the television. Loudly. And I started overhearing what sounds like one of those Tim Allen movies about Santa Claus. Sample dialogue:
Father: “I guess I just have to go back and tell her I didn’t find Santa Claus.”
Tim Allen, with a chuckle: “Oh, but you DID!”
There was no writing anything on my play after that. At least, not while being within earshot of that. So now I’m writing this instead — and relocating upstairs.
November 9th, 2014 at 4:21 am
Did you consider putting Santa Claus in your play? A little thing like that can make the difference between a critical success and boffo box-office returns!