(By Línda Vanesa Perla)
I began “An UnImportant Hunger” in autobiography last year.
Meaning this month marks the one year anniversary of its birth.
And on its one year anniversary of its birth I lost it.
Meaning I lost pages AGAIN.
This has happened to me, over the past year, countless amounts of time.
Leading to chaotic rages fueled by excruciating pain as I stare at a screen once filled with letters that turned into words that turned into sentences that turned into dialogue that turned into scenes that turned into my play.
And it has happened again.
After I gave up hope last January.
And last March.
And last May
And all of summer.
Only to have the hope come back in a frenzy of new ideas leading to a confidence that could shoot down the brightest star in October.
Only to lose more pages again.
(It happened twice in the last week.)
Now, I would agree that I am over reacting IF the pages I kept losing were different scenes. Or about different characters. Or whatever.
But they are not.
I keep losing the same scene.
It’s driving me nuts. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know why this character refuses to stay on the page. I don’t know why it hurts so much to see this character vanish every time I think I’ve nailed it on the head.
But actually, I know. I KNOW. The fact that I am loosing these scenes has something to do with my computer. And the processor. And blah blah blah. I know.
I am not a person who believes in coincidences: a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection. But it’s times like these when my belief is shaken and I can’t help but connect the metaphysical dots that have lined up in order to lose my pages so many freaking times.
Maybe I’ve been reading too much into “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”
Or maybe my play is actually CURSED.