I am by nature a novelist and a poet. I have reluctantly become a prolific short-story writer. These writing forms are my bread-and-butter. On any given day, I am working in this way.
My true ambition, however, has always been to write drama for the stage. I have studied for the role and taken blind stabs at the form. My study of Shakespeare has been continuous. I have read every great play by every great playwright from Greece to ultra-post-ante-modern. I attend dramatic productions when I can and watch video of plays performed around the world. I have thought and scripted and considered the form.
My dedication and devotion arise from an infatuation with the idea that a character of my conception will take substance in a person. The words I have imagined will emit from the mouth of an incarnation. I will have created a human being and stepped forward, for a brief moment at least, to take them by the hand. I crave the validation and disappointment. I want to feel the angst of seeing my thoughts take life and get away.
Yet I have never progressed beyond very minimalistic proto-plays. I do not feel adequate to the task. I am completely capable of creating and voicing characters. It is the stage I feel unprepared to tackle. I don’t believe that I understand the subtle nature of entrances and exits, the rise of the curtain, the moment of denouement. I would be devastated to create a fully formed human being in crisis and leave them stranded for a meaningless moment before a critical audience.
Yet, at times, I feel up to the task. I think I might dare. Lesser men have certainly tried.
So, I ponder. So I will.