just fooling around

I'm in the final 6 hours of editing and shaping the script for Migritude's premiere on November 5th. And of course, I'm freaking out with all my usual paralytic terrors:

1) It's too big, too messy, too unwieldy. Where do I start?

2) Any choices I make about what to include, what to cut, how to arrange pieces, will be the wrong choices. Then I'll be stuck with the regrets for all eternity.

3) Everything I'm saying has been said before - and better.

4) It's got to be perfect. Each line must be the best line I've ever written.

So I drink endless cups of coffee, answer trifling emails, go for walks around the block, research studio space, update the production budget, book travel, do laundry, obsess over finances, cruise the websites of other artists I'm jealous of, panic about marketing and timelines - all to put off that moment of opening the document, and engaging with the text.

In the throes of this avoidance, I wander into my local bookshop, and pick up Julia Cameron's Vein of Gold. Open it at random, and read a paragraph that likens paralytic artist perfectionism to performance anxiety about sex. How we think that if we don't have the perfect formula to make the work earthshaking, orgasmic, we freeze. If we can't control and orchestrate every detail according to our fantasy of How It Should Be, we starve ourselves of the simple touch and cuddle, the kiss on the cheek, the daily hug. How regular frequent fooling around with our work is what keeps the marriage hot. Not the tired mythical fireworks-and-champagne, penthouse suite, Valentine's Day weekend.

So I came home to nuzzle my script. To blow raspberries on her belly. To search out her ticklish spots. To put on our favourite music, neck and giggle and make out until 3am, when I will finally stretch out against her, full length, body to body. Inhale, belly expanding into her. Exhale. Say:

I think we're done here, love.