Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

The Buzzer of Doom and Things to Come

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Why am I a writer?  Because being rejected, for example, by NIDA (as I was today), hurts more than most things in life.  If it didn’t hurt, then I would’ve given up on writing long ago.


I really, really, thought that I stood a good chance this year.  Indeed, I don’t think I could’ve left the interview feeling any more certain (as uncertain as that certainty may be) of having done the best – performed the best – that I could have.

The only thing I’d wish to know is why I wasn’t selected, but I doubt I’ll ever find that out, so here’s to the monumental task, over the next few weeks, of not dwelling on it.  I’d only feel upset – resolutely upset – if it was because of some ill will that I hadn’t been chosen, but I’ve no reason to think that at all, so I can only be deferential to Fate/whatever.

But life goes on, and blank verse lines still need to be written.  dadumdadumdadumdadumdadum (or thereabouts).  And seventy or eighty bucks (I can’t remember) goes down the drain.  I could’ve bought at least four books with that.  Damn.

And let me not get bitter about it, for that would be a wasteful thing to do.  After all, I did enjoy myself at the interview (although not the anxious couple of weeks’ wait afterwards), and I did get to meet Stephen Sewell, who, while I haven’t seen any of his plays, is apparently one of Australia’s most respected playwrights – so that’ll be a good story one day, perhaps.

And yet I feel, ten or so hours later, somewhat exhilarated for the future, as if I’ve been knocked down but have found the happy reserves of fortitude and willpower to keep going.  Which is a feeling that’s taking me rather by surprise, I must say.  Indeed, I’m somewhat suspicious of it.  Perhaps it is merely the weight off my shoulders.  Perhaps it is more.  But I shall revel in it nonetheless.

I doubt what needs to process has been processed yet, though – perhaps.  But I’d rather not dwell on it now, as if to do so would be like a prison escapee unable to focus on his freedom for the slight grazes on his knees.  (Not that I think I’m ‘free’ or anything – ’tis a comparison, not an analogy.)

Oh, whatever.  Bed time.


Written by epistemysics

December 12, 2013 at 1:59 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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