I am sitting in a Starbucks staring at a blank page trying to write a play.  I have a little over a week to come up with a brilliant one-act to submit for Left Coast Theatre Co.’s fall 2014 show and I am stumped.  I’ve been stumped for weeks.  

I’ve set this Sunday aside for creative work, but the Muse has decided not to show for me today.  I got out of the house in hopes a change of scene would help.  So far it hasn’t.

This must be the main reason why I was a last-minute paper writer in school.  There was always a certain safety in knowing that whatever I put down had to pass for inspired because it was 3:00 am and there would be no time for revisions.  There might not even be time for proofreading.  I would bang away madly at the keyboard, have a nominally completed product by daybreak, put it in a fabulous report cover (give ‘em the old razzle-dazzle), stagger to class, drop it on the professor’s desk and pray.

I’d never recommend my method to anyone else.  I’m sure working well ahead, writing several drafts and doing loads of revisions is a better – and less stressful – option for most people.  But burning the midnight oil worked pretty well for me over the years.  I’d trade a night of sleep for a good, solid “B.”  Sometimes it was even a semi-solid “A.”

As I’ve said before, I’m that worst kind of perfectionist – the kind who can easily be paralyzed by the planning to make sure something is spectacular.  Waiting to the last minute saved me from that paralysis.  The night before a paper was due my inner good boy took over.  Missing the deadline was not an option.  My paper might be crap, but it would be on time.  (And, honestly, none of my papers were crap.)

Of course creative writing is different.  Creative writing has to move people or touch them or make them laugh.  It can’t be inert.  It can’t just be grammatically correct and it can’t be a good, solid “B.”  It has to be at least an “A.”  Better yet, an “A+” . . . “+” . . . “+” . . . “+” . . . “+.”  Pulitzer material.  Oh God, I’m having chest pains.

And so I sit here – with chest pains – trying to conceive the Great Gay American Comedic One-Act.  The one people will talk about for generations to come.  The one that will be new, fresh and original that no one will call derivative or hackneyed or boring.

Simple.

Or I could just write something – anything – and hope it’s good enough.

Maybe.

I need another coffee.

At least I’ve finished a blog post.

Hey!  Maybe I could write a play about writing a blog!

No.

(Sigh.)

(Lights down.)