I missed a blog last week. I’ve missed about three weeks of writing now. Not one wee poem. I don’t actually have a dog but I do have a list of excuses I have for not doing any work. Mainly that youth theatre has swallowed me whole with five sessions a week now, plus a weekly slot for the local primary 4 class and daily rehearsals for the school Christmas show. Apparently I am not one of those people who can multi task their creativity. I can only do the one thing and right now my brain is full of the four performances I’m working on, plus planning for all the different sessions and workshops. There’s no space and there’s no time.Песчаник для дорожек
But of course it is an excuse because if I really wanted to do it I would make time. I would get up early or stay up late or stop doing the yoga because I still have time for that which means at the moment it’s more important to me. And actually it is because it reduces the potential physical pain I might be in and truth is I would rather be in less pain than write. And I would rather have enough sleep than write and it must be true that I would rather make theatre than write because otherwise I would be writing instead of making shows here there and everywhere (although some of them involve writing but it’s a different kind of writing). The last one feels hardest to admit for some reason, like I’ve picked one of my children over the other and given it all my time and attention while the other has been left, neglected in the corner.
To be honest I’m not sure that I can take care of them both. I could have looked more into writing MA’s, thrown everything into that, not started the youth theatre or offered my work to the primary schools here. And I would get somewhere, where exactly I can’t say but somewhere because it’s impossible not to travel when you do the work. And I know that this year I made a different choice. I dropped that path. And I feel bad about it, a little guilty and as though I need to justify myself which obviously I don’t but here we go anyway.
I chose theatre child over writing child because I know her better, she’s my first born so to speak. Writing was probably a foster care kid. I care about her but she’s not really mine. I chose theatre child because this town needs her. This town does not need me sitting at my kitchen table trying to write poems, it needs youth arts provision. I chose theatre child because while the youth theatre isn’t paying the bills at the moment (far from it!) it has the potential one day to do so, writing child can’t pay me, not for years and years and years or maybe never. I chose theatre child because I can’t hold both their hands and I wanted to hold one hand really well. I chose theatre child because long-term there is potential for some kind of legacy from the work, if I manage to establish a thriving youth theatre in this wee town where no youth theatre exists, if I manage to bring professional theatre productions to the schools in this town and manage to make sure the young people get to see and experience theatre in their community then I have made my very tiny dent in the universe. Maybe writing child could do the same but I can’t be sure, it’s not such a safe bet. And that’s how the land lies.
But, but, but…
I don’t want to send writing child back to the home. I want there to be space in this house for her. I want to build on the work I made last year (not this year, this year has been a disaster!) I’m greedy. I want them both. But for that to happen I need to build some kind of extension on the house of my resources first, I need another room in this house, I need more space.
Anyway, blah, blah, blah who actually cares, it doesn’t matter. None of this actually matters. We’re all doomed anyway (happy Sunday!) and I am being self indulgent on this blog, forgive me. Last night it snowed and outside everything is bright and clean and the day is sunny and the snow will melt and maybe there will be more snow or maybe there won’t and that’s how it goes.