In the blind flurry of doing, there is no place within which to find a quiet corner, no place from which to observe, contemplate, even be aware of what is passing before me, of what I am passing through. Writing does not happen in this place. Consciousness barely happens in this place. And when I arrive here, writing panics me. There is no safe harbor and my conscious mind, thinking it is in control and has to provide words, panics. Once again, I am confronted with the fact that my conscious mind is not the writer, and only when my conscious mind submits itself to my writer mind that I enter the place from which I write. And it is there I find calmness and peace.
So…a scene based in memory. Failed love. I played with the literal scene, then went back and played it as the fantasy – the “what I wished I’d had the guts to say” scene – then the “what should have happened.” It brought up some intriguing prospects for me. The scene turned on the play of words and on each characters’ control over what the other will or will not say and their desire to hear or say something to the other. It is strange, and different, and I like where it went very much.