Italian vowels

Twelve hours after getting off the plane from Pisa-Paris-Montreal-Ottawa-Vancouver I sit around the table and read my play, Espresso, with the new creative team. I still have orange blossom and mimosa in my nostrils and sweet wined Italian vowels in my mouth. I forgot how devastating the play is. I forgot how much it makes me laugh. I forgot how absolutely sensual it is. And I am overwhelmed that I have to enter into this world again. It’s like getting pregnant, forgetting what labour feels like, until the first contraction, then remembering – WHAT DID I GET MYSELF INTO?! Once again. It never feels like I do write these plays. The plays write me. And they right me. And if that sounds unhinged, it is. There’s a fine line between creative and a bit crazy. I come home from a day of storytelling full alive and absolutely exhausted.

I love my new creative team, thank goodness, because they all had hard acts to follow. I could go on glowingly, but I know the proof is in the pudding. Come see for yourself. The only person I am deeply disappointed in is myself. But I am able to keep my self recrimination out of the room for the most part. Even when Rob lifted me up in his arms today. I did not apologize for being such a dumpling.

My website stories will be short in the next little while because this is a very tight rehearsal period and there is much to do. Plus of course, being a Mom. Whew! Jet lag is now taking me to bed.