desperance

We were hoping to do a full read-through of my play today, in the little theatre where it's happening. Leading man didn't make it, though; so instead, we sat and talked about it for three hours. Or they talked, rather, the director & cast, while I didn't so much put my oar in as dabble my fingers, every now and then. If you'd wanted to mock, you'd say they were asking about their motivation, as the caricature has it; but it wasn't actually mockable, it was a useful and enlightening discussion about meaning and implication, about human drives and dishonesties, that carried far beyond the walls of a theatre and the limits of a play.

They get me, they really do.

Also, it's kind of humbling - in the nicest, most arrogant sense - to sit there and listen to half a dozen people taking you seriously, talking about your work as though it mattered. I thought they'd pick it apart, but instead they were quite urgent that the text had to be respected, the language mattered, if they lost a line they couldn't just busk it or the whole piece would unravel...

Oof. Left me a little breathless, really.