Ball of Confusion


Two scenes left.

I just sent an emotional, highly embarrassing text to someone I hope will pick up and bail me out.

The gist:

“This project is so much.”

And then:

“It’s just really hard living inside these memories all the time.”

A few minutes later someone else calls me to ask about the project. We talk it out – the scenes, the process, why this is so difficult for me.

They remind me that this, this emotionality and the cry for help, is part of being human.

And the writing, nerve-raw and bloody, is even more human.

When I called my mom earlier today I told her that I’d been on edge all weekend, mostly owing to the writing process.

Then I remember I still have three months of this to go. And, oh, I have no reason to believe it’ll be any easier. Finding the words is one thing – polishing them into something affecting is totally different.

This project is already seeping into my skin. It’s already spilling into my personal life – requiring me to be vulnerable with people who are only used to seeing me as pristine and polished.

As if I needed reminding why it’s so important I’m here.