Wednesday

So despite it not being summer yet, I have a summer cold. And it's the special kind of illness that instead of making you really sick for a day or two, makes you miserable-yet-functional for a week. So I find myself sitting at my desk, feeling wretched, having been oh-so-efficient that I've finished my work for the day, and trying to stealth do other things. Of course, other things are: 1) re-learn 2 old monologues for audition in 3 weeks 2) learn 2 new monologues for an audition I hope is in 4-5 weeks 3) read the Shakespeare play one of the new monologues is attached to 4) finish the stupid first draft of this stupid play I'm supposed to have done for stupid next week. None of these are particularly appealing, but my resistance is strongest when it comes to writing, as always. It's not going well. It never feels like it's going well, but in this case I know I'm going to have to rip out most of what I've written, so why continue? I sort of feel like I should sit on it for a while and figure out what to do. But I made a vow to adhere to this deadline in front of a famous playwright and a room of fellow writers. So I feel kind of obligated, sick or not! What I have has a beginning, middle, and end. It's skeletal, but I think it counts as a first draft. But does it count? Should I be worrying about what other people say "counts" if I'm satisfied?