Or: Better Than I Remembered.
Or: Why I Now Own a Laser Printer.
My boss's boss asked me to come into her office today...nervously, I complied, only to find that she had a copy of my resume open on her computer. She asked me to sit down and then said, "You have a master's degree in playwrighting?" in a somewhat incredulous tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise, but--you have a master's degree? In playwrighting?"
Um. Yes, I was aware of that fact, but really it's....
"You do realise you're grossly overqualified for this position, don't you?"
I tried to explain that I knew when I came to Williamsburg that this was going to be my "day job" not the sum total of my career, that this was merely a way to see a new part of the world and pay the bills, until Broadway came a'knockin'... In the back of my mind I'm desperately trying to quell the part of my brain that's shouting "Aha, and how much have you written lately? Really written? I mean--written down on PAPER?!"
Then my boss's boss started talking about other departments. Departments where they write things down. Things which get said in front of other people--sometimes even memorized!--and occasionally these other people applaud. She mentioned several areas where the words which had been written down might need a titch of improvement. She wondered if I could bring in samples of my work.
First though, I had to buy a printer. And even though I was hoping to find a version of my old faithful HP, what I electrocuted in London, in the end I went with a low-end version of a laser printer. No color, no picture capabilities, no, this baby is all about black and white and pages and pages and pages of glorious text.
Kinda like a professional writer might have.
The next step was wading through all of the scripts I have. Half-finished scripts. Scripts which are not appropriate for mixed company. Scripts that have two stories haphazardly sewn together. I pulled out six scenes, a couple of my favourites and some new ones, a few essays (I swear, I've gotten more real estate out of that Assassins essay...) and finally I decide to "sacrifice" one of my Goldsmith's books. The printed, bound "professional" books they gave each of us a stack of at graduation. I have four left--one is going to CW. The scenes and essays got three hole-punched and stuck into a binder, the book was carefully bookmarked with a London postcard. Prayers are currently on the wing.
But before I finish my "portfolio," I read Unexpected City for the first time in, oh, at least a year and a half. And I surprised myself. It's good. I mean, it's really freaking good. I can't believe how good it is. I'm SHOCKED at how good it is. I'm actually tearing up slightly, disbelieving. Could it be? After years of shrugging off heartfelt praise from other people, I suddenly Believe that I'm just as damme good as everyone says I am. Better, even. This ain't ego talking, this is...the proof is in the print, people.