Sunday was wonderfully fun. I’ve been going to the monthly Portuguese Artists Colony readings for a while, sometimes as a reader and sometimes as a listener. It has a cool vibe, like a 1920s salon with poets and musicians and art on the walls and drinks mixed by a master mixologist. (Fellow playwright Daniel Heath, usually.)
And it has live writing, which I participated in for the first time. Four writers sit at the front of the room with laptops at the ready and, during a ten-minute musical performance, write something right in front of the audience, inspired by an opening line that the audience voted on as they walked in the door.
Which meant I, along with three other fabulously intimidating writers, had to block out the gorgeous music of Brooke D. and create the opening of a piece inspired by the line, “She had his head.”
I don’t what this says about the way my brain works, but as I frantically wrote, I found myself worrying that each of us was clearly going to be writing about roadside exhibits where the proprietor had a famous person’s head in a jar.
Turns out, only I took it that way. And, it turns out, after an extremely close vote, I won. The prize being that I now have to figure out the rest of the piece, write it up, and read it at next month’s event.
I mean, “get to,” of course. And since I’m woefully bad at promoting the things I do, please consider yourself invited to the next reading, which I think is Sep 25 but you can check here soon.