Rosemary Clooney recorded “When October Goes” in her 1987 tribute “album” to Johnny Mercer. I discovered the song in the fall of 1991 while trying to hold tight to my sanity and navigate unfamiliar events. I like fall. Although fall in Houston is a bit different than the fall seasons of the Northeast or Midwest. The high for today is 85 degrees, a bit warm by my definition of “fall.” There is a sense of melancholy to fall. Fall is an in-between season. The summer fruits are long gone from the grocery store bins. I’m a little suspicious of strawberries and peaches innocently offered
I missed the “CONGRATULATIONS” part of the letter. I focused on the “thank you so much for your submission.” Well, at least, the theatre company wrote back I thought. Then I read “we are happy to tell you.” Okay. Start over. Slow down. My 10-minute play, Jornada del Muerto, will be produced at the Santa Cruz Actors’ Theatre Ten-Minute Festival in January 2019. My sweet sister, Kate, told me I was getting closer to Hollywood. I like her thinking. I will be submitting another “short” play this month to a regional competition. The winners will most likely be notified in December. Waiting is what playwrights do. While we wait, it is recommended that we write. So I am. I’ve started a new play. I have ten typed pages. I have a long way to go to reach “full length” category. The play takes place in Austin or, maybe, Marfa. Five older women constitute the cast. I’m still developing the characters and then there’s the whole plot and arc thing. The research is a little more involved than I initially thought. But, I do like to be as accurate as possible.
The expression “read between the lines” means to look closely at what the author implied or actually felt versus what was written. More simply, what is meant. I’ve been in a pondering mood of late. I finished up a year-long project on July 22 — fourteen months if you cross the days off a calendar. I kept most of my
I’ve been eatin’ at Edna’s for the last couple of months. I can recommend the fried pickles and meatloaf sandwich. But, I’d steer clear of her egg salad. Memories wash over me as decades old songs play on Edna’s jukebox. Feelings long forgotten surface. My emotions are pulled into unfamiliar, yet intoxicating places.
I’m nineteen again, whistling down the Alabama coast roads, daring to be braver than I am. I boil the fresh blue crabs I pulled from the trap this morning. Got company coming for breakfast.
I’ve been watching rehearsals of Shakin’ the Blue Flamingo for several weeks. It’s been wild fun. These actors are amazing creatures. An expression, a gesture or a hesitation becomes spellbinding. And, then, there’s the director. Miss Claire does not sit rigidly in a chair and tap her pen on the script. She does not grumble, scowl or swear. I did, however, see her run her fingers through her hair a time or two. She is a professional.