All continues well. I can watch theatre without a burbling resentment of the people who got the chance to tell those stories, while I did not. My next story is on its way, though I don't see it yet. So I can live and let live. I can show up with myself in hand to audition, and shrug off the fact that I am not anyone else.
Everyone's still mostly younger and prettier than I am (well, I'm vain enough that I think I'm still marginally pretty, and therefore I beat out the more lumpen and pale ones, but I don't admit that out loud, for fear of being completely wrong), and they are certainly thinner and often have better credits on their resumes, but not a single one of them has my me-ness. Just me. I grant you, my me-ness has not been in demand, perhaps, but it's what I've got and no one else has it, and there are days it catches someone's eye and then someone lets me tell a story.
The more I concentrate on my me-ness and on the fact that auditioning is really a great chance to do the thing I love, i.e. sing and act and tell stories, albeit really short ones, the more happy I can be.
And I have a stack of 16 books that I got from the big library downtown. Ahhh. I read a whole book tonight, end to end, without skimming! Actually two - I read a one act play AND a whole book, devoured both with the glee an absorbed reading attains.
So, yes, I am still astonishingly ok. Again, I thought I would miss the awesome project more. I loved it, but there are new things to do next instead, even if I don't know what they are yet.
Set your stopwatches, folks. How long until my internal chemistry betrays my cheer and tips me into some imagined sadness? Or do I dismiss my own own resources? Is this mood the delight of living in single-minded pursuit of the next awesome project with no doubt that one will eventually appear or a result of enough Vitamin D?
Stay tuned, I guess.
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