Writing fiction is pure joy.
Every morning, I write a conversation between my characters. I start fresh and go to a natural end. They are isolated conversations with neither stage direction nor continuous with the previous day’s dialogue, but they all relate to a single theme. Eventually I hope to create a two-act play that I can produce.
Playwrights often engage their audiences by building their plays around an event or dramatic action to provide entertainment for your eye while your mind grapples with the ideas in the text. I’m avoiding that; Camilla, Des and Morris do nothing, Seinfeld-like, in Morris’ condo.
I was always hurrying in my past. Clients wanted work yesterday or I wanted to see the tangible outcomes of my work as soon as I could. Now, however, in domestic exile due to the PTSD, I have an abundance of time that has given me the motivation and capacity to aim high.
I made Dr. Shoja laugh heartily this week by having a laughing fit myself. I’d been talking about something when suddenly, with no warning, I asked her if I might stammer for the rest of my life. I caught her off guard and her face just froze for a few seconds and I started to laugh—and soon, quite hard. But her freeze told me more than whatever words she was searching for would have.
I tried to see myself this winter and I saw myself unchanged from today—stuck in home arrest and stammering badly often, so this challenge to write something long and with every word and action carefully chosen will be a very practical antidote to ennui.