My Little Bit of Therapy
I sit here writing this at my desk and think of how writing has carried such an influence in my life. I've written stories as gifts for other people, I've written exam papers and essays that have carried me on to the next level in my education, I write a diary, I write this....and I write plays.
My plays are my little bit of therapy. I wonder if people will ever look at them and see the turmoil and pain their author was in at times whilst she was creating them. I wonder if they'll ever be read, and if glimpses of me will be seen through the characters. I wonder if people will see them and wonder if they're seeing themselves up on that stage.
And, of course, I wonder if they'll ever be read or performed at all.
"There's a totality to it that's almost like rape", as Stephen King so beautifully expressed it in The Green Mile, and I wholeheartedly agree. There is. To write something like a play is to express a little part of yourself, to give the world a little glimpse inside your mind, no matter how wacky or straightforward the finished product might be.
So in these troubled times of mine, writing is my comfort and my solace. I can express feelings, ideas and opinions, and no one can ever really tell what's mine and what's coming out of the mouth of the character as a small matter of my imagination.
When Angels Deserve To Die is the one that's receiving my attentions at the moment. Sara's journey through the perils of her mind, her reliance on others to keep her alive and her distress and terror at being deserted by those who promised to stick by her are all events I can relate to, because they've happened to me. But how can I relate to someone who isn't even alive except on the page, someone that I've created? Because she and I are intertwined. Because what Sara undergoes is the same as I have. Maybe I want the world to know, maybe that's why I wrote my experiences into the pages. Maybe I don't; maybe it's just because I believe that I have a talent, and that the best way to demonstrate that talent is by using material already in my mind.
In Angels..., Sara comments that when her letter is finished, it'll be "time for her to go". When I can no longer write; when the flow of ideas has dried up and there's nothing left but a blank page, I'll know it's my time, too.
My plays are my little bit of therapy. I wonder if people will ever look at them and see the turmoil and pain their author was in at times whilst she was creating them. I wonder if they'll ever be read, and if glimpses of me will be seen through the characters. I wonder if people will see them and wonder if they're seeing themselves up on that stage.
And, of course, I wonder if they'll ever be read or performed at all.
"There's a totality to it that's almost like rape", as Stephen King so beautifully expressed it in The Green Mile, and I wholeheartedly agree. There is. To write something like a play is to express a little part of yourself, to give the world a little glimpse inside your mind, no matter how wacky or straightforward the finished product might be.
So in these troubled times of mine, writing is my comfort and my solace. I can express feelings, ideas and opinions, and no one can ever really tell what's mine and what's coming out of the mouth of the character as a small matter of my imagination.
When Angels Deserve To Die is the one that's receiving my attentions at the moment. Sara's journey through the perils of her mind, her reliance on others to keep her alive and her distress and terror at being deserted by those who promised to stick by her are all events I can relate to, because they've happened to me. But how can I relate to someone who isn't even alive except on the page, someone that I've created? Because she and I are intertwined. Because what Sara undergoes is the same as I have. Maybe I want the world to know, maybe that's why I wrote my experiences into the pages. Maybe I don't; maybe it's just because I believe that I have a talent, and that the best way to demonstrate that talent is by using material already in my mind.
In Angels..., Sara comments that when her letter is finished, it'll be "time for her to go". When I can no longer write; when the flow of ideas has dried up and there's nothing left but a blank page, I'll know it's my time, too.
posted by SaMxXx at Wednesday, July 05, 2006
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