Published unbeknownst

I blogged recently about Dream of a Ridiculous Man. I had also planned to write a general-purpose review for Theatre Puget Sound's Theatre Reviews board. More, "You gotta see this show!" and less dreamtime.

The next day, I was surprised to discover my own review from the blog, already posted on TPS. Well, not SO surprised... I had told Akropolis I'd be writing a TPS review, and they liked the blog one so just sent it over. I was also relieved -- magically, while I slept, I had delivered ahead-of-schedule on my commitment.

But what a strange sensation. To read my private love-heart, unreeled on a huge public board. I felt like I was seeing a great dark-grey curtain unfurled across the back of the stage. Something vast and expensive you didn't know you had. Seeing my review in context with other reviews made me realize, my writing is as different from the other writing, as Akropolis is from the other theatres.

Theatre directors have a saying, "You can't see your show till the audience arrives." Magically, as soon as strangers are looking it, you can see everything you missed. Like, take Nanda Devi. For six weeks, I had been focussed on the actors, the flow, the musicality. And then, the day we had an audience, I realized -- oh my god, the DOORS are the main character. We were performing in a room with two large wooden doors on the right, through which all entrances and exits came and went. SWING, talk talk, SWING, SWING, talk talk talk, SWING, talk SWING SWING.

I can't really see my writing until it's published. Seeing it like that, I realized my writing sounds like John Freedman, like Jan Kott -- articulate writers, in thrall to theatre.

Yesterday, I got an email from a stranger, saying, "Great post, I loved this writer's prose."

That's when I got the, "My god, I'm published," feeling. An affirmation that I can write from my love-heart and be received. Before, I had fantasized that if I wrote vulnerably, I would be attacked, mocked, incisively and articulately ridiculed. I never fantasized that a stranger would say, "I, too, dream."