Today the winners for the New Mexico contest (not the finalist, the honest-to-Job winners) were supposed to be notified, but guess who hasn't been emailed? That's right. Your friendly neighborhood chocolate toad in the hole. Yup. No love for the Potty Mouth. I'm feeling sorry for myself, but not just because I didn't get into this festival. Hell, I've only been accepted into one festival so far, so I'm no stranger to rejection. What scares me is that I have peaked.
The idea of peaking scares the shit out of me. It's much worse than being eaten alive by a giant octopus. When you're in the water and you see that humungous head lurching toward you, you pretty much know it's curtains. But when you achieve a little creative success, the victory is short. The next few hours, days, years even, are spent hustling for that next success. Because you know in the back of your mind that if you don't hustle for that next break, it's not going to come and you're going to be fifty years old sitting on an upturned bucket talking about how you used to be the shit. I don't want a bucket. I want a career.
This year has been fantastic. It's only May and I've had a short film produced, having my first stage play premiere in two weeks and wrote the script for the living theatre/plantation project. I admit, things could be worse. But what if this is it? It's a pretty varied body of work, but is it enough? I can't live knowing that I could have/should have done more. I guess the bigger question is: CAN I do more? Am I capable? I really, really hope so. I hope I haven't hit my ceiling. Not before "Damn Tracy" hits the air.
Sidebar: I'm watching the Celtics play the Cavaliers and Kevin Garnett looks like Mr. Hanky. A big giant black turd in a headband. Hidey-ho!
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