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I must be a writer, because I can’t stop…

…even when I try.

I haven’t posted a thing about writing, theatrical or otherwise, in months, for several reasons. The biggest, of course, is that I’m currently in southern China, teaching English. Having never been to Asia, or taught anyone under university age, those took priority, by default.

My internal jury about whether this was the best thing for me to do is still out. I am glad, however, I shook up my life, because I needed to dwell on something other than writing/theatre/drama at all for a while. Any regular followers of mine may have noticed I said basically nothing about doing my long-gestating show It Started With an Allergy at the Edmonton Fringe last summer. And I’m flummoxed to say I’m still not ready to write about it. You always hope that any show you work on will provide great experiences, memories, and fodder for further work…for now, in short, that show provided me none of that.

Over the last year or so, I had (I thought) accepted that theatre would never be my bread-and-butter, and to take a new approach. I genuinely felt ready, at last, to dive back into academia and do a PhD in drama. Imagine my dismay when, after two years of trying, I wasn’t accepted to any of the programs I wanted. Rejection is not something I’m willing to take right now, so all of my well-meaning well-wishers, offering me other possible literary programs to apply for, didn’t hear back from me.

So I spent a miserable few weeks this past fall wondering, at 41 years old, where the heck my life is going next. And bugger if the answer didn’t, I swear, just ARRIVE.

I was asleep. And woke up at 3 am thinking “Oh…that’s, that’s an idea, I have one two three complete scenes in my head, that’s a whole story beginning to end, it can wait till I get up. And have to eat breakfast. And then teach all day.” Nope. I had my laptop beside me, and, without putting my glasses on, banged out one page of the most utter nonsense one could see. It made just enough sense that in the morning, I could retype it as an outline, in actual sentences. And the following weekend, I wrote the whole play out, except for the last scene, all in one go.

It’s good. It’s REALLY good, I don’t say this often. It’s so good, I felt so good writing it, that I’m still twitchy. The last time I remotely felt this way was on finishing Take a Bite. I polished up this new play, formatted it, and I’ve made a list of places to send it.

That’s what happens to me. Whenever the doubt surfaces — am I actually a writer anyway? — it eventually appears again. I know I’m a writer because even when I try to stop, it won’t go away.

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Photos from China: Don’t drink and shop!

I didn’t, actually, not at the same time, so that advice is misplaced.

I spent yesterday with my amazing co-worker Sosena: she was born and grew up in Ethiopia, went to university in St Petersburg and Odessa (BSc in Statistics!), visits her family in France regularly, and came here from living in Queens, New York.  Sosena’s in her second year of teaching, so she knows of sights my other friends don’t yet.

Zhongshan is called China’s “Garden City”, and it really is. The parks are gorgeous — plants, architecture, and art! — and well-maintained.  And as people earn more and open up to “the West”, more expensive, fusion shops are opening.

Sosena took me took me up Zhongshan’s “most beautiful street” to a mall called Holiday Plaza, where the subtle Christmas decorations are up, and there are lots of beautiful, very expensive shops to look at. I got presents from an incredible bookstore to send home, and scented sachets to keep the mustiness (and maybe insects) out of my wardrobe.

And then, in the evening, my much younger co-workers asked me out for a drink, which turned into drinks plural, which turned into a cab ride, which turned into meat sweats at the “night market,” where one can eat lamb which has been slaughtered and butchered minutes before eating it, while losing at poker. (That all happened the night before last, to a friend.)  Viewers of my Fringe play Allergy will remember that my endo has resulted in me not being able to have alcohol — I simply can’t have any without feeling immediately ill.  It had been about four years since my last drink, and last night among my friends, I decided to throw caution to the wind.  I had one glass of excellent Shiraz, was instantly drunk, and — despite drinking water between sips and eating all the meat — had the nausea and headache within an hour. Time to admit there’s just some things I can’t have anymore.

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Photos from China (2)

Photos not in order — WP is being weird.

IMG_20150913_190520 IMG_20150913_182956 IMG_20150913_183912 IMG_20150913_183916 IMG_20150913_190504 During the Welcome Dinner for all new and returning teachers.  Left, trying to lean out of frame, is Sebastien, from France.  To the right is Jasmine (English, but lived in Greece all her life), and Cindy, from Bond Educational and Cultural Institute (our employer).

The welcome dinner was held at a Korean BBQ restaurant (yes, we’re in China.  So?) You choose your meat and veggies (buffet style), then cook everything yourself on a grill in the middle of your table.

 

 

Scrumptious.

 

 

 

Oh yeah.  Swedish chef time — Pork pork pork.  More pork.  SO MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF PORK.

 

 

Left, front: my roommate Joe, from England, behind him is Candy, and on the right is Gemma, from Australia.

YES, my roommate is a very young man.  His first words on meeting me after my 12-hour flight were: “Would you like a cup of tea?”

 

A ram in the mall where the Korean restaurant was.  Random fluffy animals everywhere.

My friend Claire, from South Africa.  She’s into cosplay.

Back at the Welcome Dinner.  It was my birthday.

So we had cake.

Dessert at the dinner.  These are mochi.

My grade 5 class.  There are 50 of them.  I’m starting to adjust.  :0

Happy Teacher’s Day!  I got a bouquet of Ferrero Rocher “flowers”.

Interesting hand lotions available here. ??