You stew in uncertainty, you do anything but write. You overthink. You stay up late trying to listen to the characters and what their fears are. You bond with them, you laugh and cry with them. You go for a run, see boys setting a bush on fire and find a way to add it to the catalyst of said play. You stop writing all together. No journaling, not even note taking. But you still show up to the playwriting meeting the day after seeing him in the hospital. Because even though you never anticipated your father getting cancer, you knew accountability was the only way you would finish writing the damn thing. Even if all you did was change punctuations and add a couple of pages, unedited, you showed up month after month.
You deal with the pages in front of you. Because at least you have control over that. You stop writing again, so you go to a slam poetry open mic to feel someone else’s grief for a change and see glass figures adorning the cafe. Another conduit for fire, another way the elements inspire you to keep writing. You listen to the little girl in the volcano, how she hurts, how she aches, how she howls with anger. She wants to destroy everything around her. You almost let her. But you don’t write that version. Instead of stewing, you make a collage to inspire you. You see a plane over mountains and see the villagers’ salvation. Perhaps because empathy is a muscle and you see yourself in all the characters. You may be the little girl whose rage is blinding and sorrow is too hot to handle without a hazmat suit. But so is your mother, and your mother’s mother, so you fall asleep in hopes they sprinkle their own magic over unfinished sentences.
You tell your director all of this, and thankfully, she is the most compassionate collaborator you could have dreamt of. And from there, you slowly start letting go of the play. It starts taking shape and living, breathing without your oxygen. The pain is still there, the emotions are loud and desperate to be let out, so you let them. Because you feel safe enough to do so. You thank the actors and artists who help bring this story to life. As well as the matralineage who you hope to honor. You thank your body for being a vessel of healing and transformation. You almost don’t make it into the venue. But when you show up to the theatre, you are greeted with an overwhelming amount of love and support. You sit back, try to calm your nerves, scribble thank you notes, attend injuries, and a friend brings you a cup of tea.
You watch the play, thank the community who showed up. There are a thousand edits you want to make, but for now, your play and your father are alive. Signifying, there is still time, to refine, to clarify, to create memories.
Last June I was coming out of the threshold of Las Sirenas when I sent out a tweet that read, “what if my next play is set on a volcano”. And as I like to claim, my seeds will meet the sun! Thank you to those who were able to watch and be part of the staged reading of La Niña del Volcan at the Wayward Artist. I’ve uploaded the lastest version to my Patreon if you weren’t there and would like to read it. Check out the other incentives as well—support your local creatives!
I am so grateful to the Embark program and Wayward Artist for all their support. This truly would not have been possible without them. To my fellow playwriting cohort AJ, Cara and Vita. You rock!! I can’t wait to keep following and supporting your work. To Baylee (a day 1 fan of the play) Min and Nicholas for your facilitation skills and being down to get into the weeds of the drafts every month. To my amazing director Melanie for tenderly holding space and being the birth doula of the play. To all the actors, to my friends and family. I’ve got one poetry event this Saturday at 7pm at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA. Free tickets are available here and the event will be streamed here if you’d like to watch. I’m honored to be among some incredible poets I love and admire very much. Thank you reader for making it to the end of this post. For those of us who are in the middle of winter, I hope you are able to stay warm and keep fueling your inner flame. Apply some tenderness to what hurts, ask for help when you need it. Slow down. Nature invites us to rest. As my mentor Dr. Amanda Kemp likes to say, “don’t be stubborn, take your medicine.”
With love and gratitude,
-Anatalia
PS.
A special dedication goes out to my beloved boy cat, Quique, who waited until after my play was over to transition from the physical realm. I’m absolutely heartbroken, but so honored for the buckets of unconditional love he showed my family. I almost didn’t write this post, but how could I let down my favorite writing partner. Just look at that face <3
I feel a renewed commitment to being a source of love to honor his memory. He’s part of my spirit team now, and for that I feel immense gratitude.
Funny enough, I wrote a short play inspired by his silly, lovable energy many moons ago. What do you think? Should I dust it off and give it a whirl?
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