There is a strange feeling I experience when my gaze moves from my laptop whilst writing a script of a story based in the dry red Goldfields of Western Australia to the lush green fields outside my studio window at the Artist Residency quarters at Bundanon Trust. Is this the same country?
I have been in Bundanon for 3 weeks, and I finally finished the first draft of the play I have wanted to write since I began this blog. Instead of celebrating, I am feeling vulnerable. Writing is a solo activity, and although I am enjoying meeting and sharing stories and meals with other artists here, I still spend much of my time alone with my laptop, living in a surreal internal world between desert and hinterland, fact and fiction, and tropical Broome, where I was before I came here, winter in Tokyo, where I am going to be in two weeks time for Christmas, my brief 2 day return to my apartment in Rozelle last weekend, and my memories of the last two years since I had an inkling of what it was I wanted to write, I no longer seem to know if what I have written makes any sense or if the story is of any interest to anyone other than me, and what and how, if at all, am I going to do next with this script.
Today am in need to grasp something solid and immovable, so that I may wake up tomorrow to start my second draft. Maybe.
…so with this in mind, my next entry in the blog is the bibliography of draft 1.