I had wanted to get the Project done, or a draft at the least, or an outline at the minimum, by December 31st.  It seemed like a neat time to end that phase, wrap it up, tie a pretty bow on it, send it along to the wonderful woman who is expressing some interest in being a composer (and, if I’m lucky, a music director).

I WILL make that deadline for the outline.  I probably won’t get much beyond that, but for me, going from outline to script is a lot faster process.  We had a death in the family, the boys have been sick non-stop (with a host of small illnesses that have rendered me very familiar with certain aisles in Walgreens) and therefore not sleeping, and of course, our house is still not back together.

I’m only able to write if I get up before the boys.  They’ve been getting up at 5 these days, and not sleeping through the night, so that’s not been happening.   They aren’t napping more than 30 minutes, either.  By end of day, when they are in bed for a few hours, I am spent.  It’s not that I don’t want to write, don’t have the willingness.  My eyes are already closing.  No energy.

For some reason, instead of looking at the luxury of time I have (technically, I have the rest of my life to write this)…I feel like a failure for not being further along.

Naturally, I’d rather feel a failure as a writer than as a mother, but still…

No creative thoughts seem to be able to scream through the noise of regular life right now. 

Soon, things will settle down.  This I know.  The holidays will pass, we will mourn our loss, the boys will get healthy (or I’ll die trying to get them there.) 

So December 31st, 2010 will only see an outline. A script will most likely not be ready on December 31.  It may be January 15th or February 6th or…

That’s the logic part of me.  The emotional part still feels I’ve let myself down.

I look at my friends who are writing and mounting shows.  They seem to be able to write an entire hour’s script in six hours.  And it’s not bad.  I marvel.  I remember when I did that.

I try to convince myself that I’m not going for a sketch show.  That I’m in a different place in my life….blah blah blah.  I watch my friends take their nice bows in shows that were written, mounted, and closed in the time it’s taken me to keep pushing back my own script to do other shows, to care for other people, and to be a mama.

I don’t mind that last part.

I’ve written some scenes.  I’ve started writing out others I want.  It’s sloppy and overdone and bloated.  It’s painful, which is normal.  I’m trying to find time.  I’m trying to ignite that energy to take me over the hump of feeling like a creative lump.  I’ve got bits and pieces.  I need the thread to tie it together.  (I need some quiet.  I need less chaos.  But, heck, I know that’s a pipe dream right now. Get it? Pipe dream?  Exploded sewage pipes in my base…oh, yeah, you get it.)

I know my script will soon enough involve nice bows.  What’s a calendar date at this point anyway? 

(Says the gal who can stick to a rehearsal script like glue.)

Then again, with my luck, I’ll get a heck of a lot more done in the next few weeks than I think…and will have to crawl back here and explain how I wasn’t being dramatic.

Boys are up.  6:21.  They slept in today.  Things are looking up.

But my heart…I still feel like a failure at this writing thing. So very behind. I just need 60 minutes a day.  Heck, I’ll take 20.  Just focus on the outline.  Just focus….focus…focus…