make more mischief

I ask my New Years Resolution what it needs to be this year. I am expecting “punctuality” or “work out 4 x a week” or “learn Italian”. Instead, she winks and declares,

 

“Make more mischief”.

 

My soul – surprisingly – agrees. Once again, God is everything I don’t expect.

 

I am rather confused on both fronts. Why mischief? And what does that happen to do with my soul? Last year it was “fiscal responsibility” and it was a success. Should I not continue along the path of security and sobriety? Mischief indeed! There are so many more practical things for me to achieve. What am I supposed to glean from this Idea?

 

Have I swung too hard the other way? Have I lost my fun? Have I become a square? I am spending New Years Eve doing laundry and walking the dog because I don’t want to spend money, be tempted to eat things I’m allergic to, or cavort with fellows who ultimately are a waste of time for me.

 

Oh God. It’s true. I’ve become a nerd! How did this happen? If my plays get nerdy, I’m done, I’m dead.

 

I look up at my cupboard and see a bottle of wine I’ve been keeping for nearly…oh my goodness, nearly four years! Turnip gave it to me. He purchased it at a vineyard while we were in California. I got the impression it would age well and be worth hundreds. I promised to keep it for a special occasion. That special occasion never came. His love vanished but his wine remained. When would I drink it?! There never seemed the right occasion. Each time I considered it, along with the bottle came the memory of the heartbreak. Should I give it away? Maybe. But that feels disrespectful. It was a gift.

 

Wouldn’t it be terrible mischief to drink it like it’s nothing, while I’m folding my sheets and playing internet Scrabble? I mean, why am I so worried about being disrespectful towards a Turnip who broke up with me by email?! GOOD LORD LUCIA!

 

I crack it open while chatting with my brother, Joey, on the phone. He says, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’ve held onto that thing for this long. Your accountant brother advises you to just sell it!”

 

Too late, it’s open. I give it a taste. It’s very nice. Very nice indeed. I chuckle, very pleased with myself. And what surprises me: I feel a tremendous relief! I had no idea my niceness kept me chained to a constant reminder of Turnip. This bottled memory in my home, every single day. What was I thinking?!

 

Between scrabble games, out of curiosity, I look up the market value of the wine: label, grape, year. It’s worth sixty bucks, not three hundred.

 

While I sip on glass number two with chocolate Cheerios, I look up the definition of mischief, in case there are connotations I’m unfamiliar with. Not really. Webster’s says: a playful desire to stir up trouble.

 

I start to let mischief into my imagination. What would it look like beyond this bottle of sixty dollar wine being treated like a Coors light beer? Skipping a day of school with my daughter to go swimming in the lake, packing entirely impractical daffodil colored Moschino pumps for my trip to Italy and …(the third idea I am not going to share…)

 

As for mischief in my writing…that’s far more dangerous. I would say I’ve done a lot of mischief over the years, but I have to admit, the plays I have started recently…I’m trying to make them safe.

 

Each draft I do, I make it happier and sexless. Why? I want it to sell. I want to survive. I don’t want another AD to wince and say “this is a red flag”. I don’t want to get the scathing reviews anymore. I don’t want people who don’t even know me say they “hate” me. I don’t want nasty letters and emails. I don’t want people writing to me on Facebook, telling me I should be ashamed of myself.

 

But then again, everything good that’s come of the writing has been because I’ve taken a risk somewhere, somehow. And I know darn well that’s worth it. And I know darn well that’s my job. I am not the female Disney.

 

Cheers to that! I raise my glass.

 

Mischief. Oh mischief. You never make things easy for me. But you always leave me with integrity.