Day 11: November 11

I'm caught up.  28 pages.  Now to race around and do all the other things (okay some of the things) I haven't gotten accomplished today...

I agree on the war waged inside. There's so many bombs we lay in our own paths to keep us from writing and from doing things we know are good for us (exercise, eating right, what have you). On this day that we remember veterans, we should also remember the soliders still fighting the good fight, both here and abroad.

And Thumper, congrats on your page number. That's wonderful!

I'm pausing today and reflection on "the war inside me".  While it's valid to talk about the wars outside of ourselves, I also think that so often, we have internal wars that are not paid any attention. I've had a war with playwriting inside me for a long time. It partly why I created Naplwrimo. I wanted other people to share their battle, to hear what it was like for them.

And yes, writing is a privilege and a choice.

As I step back from writing and still contribute to the community, I'm watching some interesting wars going on in my brain. There are lots of voices competing for my attention. These would make a good play by themselves, ha...

Thanks for sharing on here today.

I can't help it. I want it to be a good play. Not just what Garry Trudeau called twitters: "brain droppings".

I am in our well lit kitchen, looking out the back doors to the bird feeders. We refer to the feeders as the "Tim Hortons" line up [think donut shop or Starbucks] as there is a sequence of different kinds of birds at different times during the day. Chickadees in the early morning, then house and purple finches with the odd nuthatch, then a mob scene of sparrows in the afternoon. Sometimes a cardinal. Jays grab peanuts off the windowsill.

This peaceful place is a privilege. No one famous is responsible for it. It didn't arise from dramatic acts that became fodder for movies or songs. Ordinary people did simple things to make this place for me. Went on ships and cleaned the bulkheads. Walked a long time in order to dig a hole to hide in. Clambered up into glass bubbles barely wide enough for their shoulders so they could see all of the sky around them as they flew. Rode a motorcycle past dead horses to deliver the mail. Buried the dead horses.

Seventy years ago, a spiteful maniac was challenged. Not because of his murderous racist ways, but because of the usual desperate need of the world to grab and hold resources. But still, he was challenged. My parents were children. They were shipped off to strangers during the blitz, then returned home as young teenagers. My father joined the Navy as he was too short for the air force. My mother was 14, took her civil service exam, and started work for the post office in London while buzz bombs and V2s blew apart the streets. My grandfather, a veteran of the First World War - horse artillery, supporting Canadians at Vimy Ridge - overcame his residual shell shock to run through broken glass to help save his neighbours. I had uncles in the desert in Africa, in ships that were torpedoed, in planes that were shot down. That was NORMAL for my parents. Every day, someone they knew died in some gruesome manner. Every day for six years. And still they volunteered. They went.

It still matters. It will always matter.

So the play I'm writing, which about that time period before the Second World War, before those in power took steps to stop the madman,...I really want it to be good. I want it to talk about the ones who aren't famous, who will never have a movie made about them, who won't get medals or money for it, but who went. Who did what they could. Who fought back with whatever they had, however they could. Who weren't even soldiers.

40 pages.

So I got behind by 1) working on preproduction for my play going up in February and 2) watching TV last night.  Gah!  So when I flipped up the laptop this morning those missing pages just seemed insurmountable.  But worrying about it is a waste of energy that could be used more effectively by just getting something done.  I hated what I was writing at first, but now I'm kind of digging it.  I hope to be at least caught up by today.  Wouldn't that be nice?

It's a day for reflection. And I reminded myself just how very fortunate I am. At my age, my grandfather was trying to create a life for himself (+wife and 3 sons) after fighting in African deserts and New Guinean jungles during WWII.

It's a privilege to be able to write. Sometimes I forget, and feel obliged. But obligation is something quite different. So I'm going to try to remember this, that it is my choice, my great privilege to be ale to write. And enjoy every word, every page.