Self Salute

In the arena of accomplishments, in the sort of having something accepted for publication vein, tonight and tomorrow and Saturday my words will again be projected from a stage in NYC. If someone had told me years ago (or whenever), “Oh, yeah, you will have a couple of short plays done in New York but you won’t see either of them,” my mouth would have dropped from disappointment and disbelief. But I’m old enough to know things never turn out exactly how you envision them—whether getting published or having something on the boards. But like with any small success, I do take pride in the accomplishment, in the ability to toss off the small potatoes of being able to say, “Oh, yes, I’ve had a couple of plays done in New York.” Never mind that they were short plays and in festivals or however flawed the productions may have been. Let anyone who asks about my playwriting fill in those blanks with ideas of a huge production with dancing chorus boys and girls and the like. Other than some stories published early on, real accomplishments in the writing arena came late for me, late bloomer that I am. Tonight I will have a drink in an unabashed salute to myself. I plan also to tilt the glass toward NYC in a salute to those actors saying my words and the audiences hearing them. Pardon me, but here’s to me, a boy who grew up loving film and music and all things written and who turned out to be a writer.

Homeplace



   Today a lifelong friend visiting either for two weeks or two years posted on his blog (http://wwwscriblets-bleets.blogspot.com/2012/03/old-roots.html) about the “feeling of being lost at home” when one returns to long absent youthful haunts. As I commented on the post, not that I ever take my homeplace for granted, but there is always a sense of personal renewal and appreciation when shown and described with other eyes.

  

   Have a look at my friend’s fine writing and get a peek at the patio where friends are entertained and afternoons are spent with a cold beer and the sounds of birds and the splash of the waterfall making music to accompany thoughts both large and small.

Bliss Stations



   With a nod to Joseph Campbell, there are two Bliss Stations in my life: weekend mornings, getting a cup of coffee and getting back into bed and reading for an hour; and the time in front of the laptop arranging the puzzle pieces of language into my own song. One is absolutely Heaven, the other sometimes short of that.

   Writing is always tough and sometimes made more so if the subject is personal. Working on a memoir about growing up in south Louisiana, about standing at my daughter’s hospital window and looking over the old neighborhood, aware of what went on down there and aware of what was being played out in the room behind me, my daughter critically ill and in a coma from viral encephalitis. As tough as it was to do, keeping a journal during those dark days kept me sane, literally. And now, dealing with all that again, I keep a copy of Dani Shapiro’s Slow Motion nearby to remind me that writing always includes bravery.