I’m so sorry this is late – my dress rehearsal last night went on a lot longer than anticipated, and I didn’t have time to write this last night.
That was sort of the point of today’s blog anyway.
For a long time, I knew I was creative. I also knew that if I did nothing creative, I’d get restless. I’d get bad-tempered over petty little things. I’d feel itchy in my own skin. I’d feel unhappy all the time, and have a tendency to burst into tears.
I knew that being creative could snap me out of it. Writing, acting, singing, dancing, I’d thought they’d all be the same cure for these particular blues. It turns out that’s not the case.
I love to act. It fulfils a need for me to get into another character’s head. I love pretending to be someone else, and seeing the world through their eyes. I love every minute of the process. But it turns out that whilst I love to act, I need to write.
I’ve been working on these play for about three months, to the exclusion of almost everything else. I haven’t had the time or energy to write for about three weeks – and the symptoms set in. Restlessness, bad temper, moroseness. Whilst the acting was creative, it wasn’t fulfilling my need. It appears only writing can do that.
If someone said I could never act again, I’d be heartbroken. But if someone said I could never write again, I think I’d die, inside.