WRITER'S GROUP

I go to writers group in midtown at 7 pm.
I am in a mean and lonely mood. DESPONDENT. Although I am told this is not a good choice.

I have a new haircut which allows me some confidence.
I see David in the elevator and the chemistry of my body and mind changes because he is so funny and smart.

I’m glad that I made the choice to go.
I'd considered (seriously) lying on my couch and staring into space... in the dark!

But I am in a small theatre office around sunny hopeful writers in skyskraper in midtown. We are crowded in a mini circle, seven of us, as if around a campfire, our toes knock into each other.

I didn’t bring anything to read because I have no sense of how to write. I missed the boat entirely on writing. I have no confidence, no élan. At a certain point I thought, why bother? Let other people write. Now, I have no background, no history, no skinned knees or recovered ego from a maniacal writing teacher. And writing (it seems) may be the only thing that I am able to do. This is why I’m tapping out this nonsense that you are reading.

People pass out scripts and ask people to read. I am asked several times to read various characters. I am a good reader (usually), because when I was younger I was shitty, so I made a practice of doing hundreds of readings this past decade, I may have done a thousand!

But now my voice is weak and my tongue is tied because of my undiganosed disease that started with my feet. I want to apologize to the writer, to the room. But I've learned an actor never apologizes. And what am I supposed to say, "I have a neurological degenerative disease so … bear with me folks"?

Some of this writing is really good. Normally I could have sold it.
Make it sing. But tonight I struggle. I have no sound, the muscles that control my tongue are weak.

My brain, however, doesn’t feel doomed. There is no siganal of despair.
My brain tells my body and self that this is temporary. It feels like I’m shaking a bad cold that has left me tuckered out. With enough rest and orange juice I’ll be whistling as I walk.

I have to remind myself that this might be the best I’ll be... from now on. I have to remind myself that I have a terrible disease.

During the discussion of a short play (about a man who dreams he is in his ex-girl friend's tear drop) I lose focus.
I wonder what I’ll do with myself.
Will people take pity on me and hire me in an office even if I can only whisper and shuffle across the floor?

Back to the discussion.

This writing is good. I never had the talent to write (I think). Shoot.  Now writing is how I will have to create.

There is a super handsome young man who sits across from me. His skin is flawless and his bone structure like the Michaelangelo's David. I feel so far away from him. How could anything possible go wrong for him?

His handsome skin and bone structure will take him far and protect him.