I'm 15 pages into my play and I'm realizing that, while it's not bad dialog, and the characters are shaping up, nothing is happening. It's boring and the themes are common. My imagination is limited by my refusal to try anything difficult to write. This is not a problem that I have with my novel. I have villages, adventure, drama, unique concepts and mechanics.
But my play about middle-class white people problems makes me want to puke. I've put hours of work into something I'd never pay to see. I know what I hate about them - they have no real struggle, no life in them. I'm not even using them to say interesting things; I just want to express a general longing for more. Which coming from a family of successful adults is a pitiful effort. It makes them sound whiny. This one goes into the "fix it" file. Maybe someday those characters will have something to say, but not from a place of strength and opportunity. I have to let them wander around in my head for a while until they have more to contribute.
In other news...
We've been waiting for weeks to have our first (and hopefully only) sonogram, but now an ice storm has pushed it back to Wednesday. I would love to say this is the most exciting appointment of the pregnancy, but we are leaving the gender a mystery until birth, so this is just a little check-up, with strange gray slices of baby-shaped love.
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