Writing on the Wall Opens Jan 12, 2018!

It has taken years of struggle to bring this story to some sort of completion;  for me as a creative, Writing on the Wall isn’t complete in this form, either, but it’s in a good place.  It’s in a place were dreams are realized and futures begin. Not just for me, but many of the cast are having their literal moment in the spotlight with the opening of the show.

I am so proud of the work everyone has done and humbled by the enthusiasm the actors have shown my work. They’ve made the words I could never decide were dross or gold pulsate with life on each syllable uttered.

Although a pipe burst and damaged the theater Christmas week, the show must go on. We delayed the January 5, 2018 opening by seven days, but we’ll have a rehabbed backstage and restrooms, and additional rehearsal time before we open on Friday, Jan 12. This will be a great show and one I hope to expand and share with a wider audience in the near future.

Keep dreaming and doing, and you’ll get there. I believe in you.

 

Blessings, y’all!

McKay Arts Presents:

WRITING ON THE WALL

Written by Daphne Watson and directed by Antoine McKay

Friday and Saturday January 12, 13, 19, 20, 26 and 27 at 8 pm. Sunday January 14, 21 and 28 at 6 pm.

McKaw Theatre 1439 W Jarvis, Chicago, IL 60626

*Present your press credentials at the box office for a complimentary ticket.*

When a desperate and depressed young man scribbles “My best friend died when I was eight, and I’ve been trying to join her ever since” onto the wall of Entre Nous, he doesn’t expect his words to matter to anyone, least of all a stranger. Burdened by a past he can’t move on from and fearful of a future he hasn’t designed, Julian sees only one solution.

Writing on the Wall is a transformative play delivered in poetry and prose by a talented cast who do not shy away from hard, and oftentimes uncomfortable, themes.

Cast:
Andrea Adams (Bernadette)
Chris Clark (Julian)
LaShunda Clark (Sonia)
Josh Flanders (Randall)
Sarah Mobley (Vita)
Nicola Rinow (Genevieve)
Halley Sharp (Tristan)
Understudies: Donna Eggleston, Bob Kostopoulos (performing the 1/12/18 show) and Rebecca McKay

Hide Not Your Talents…

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What is a sundial in the shade?” Benjamin Franklin

These past several weeks have been a whirlwind of activity. First, I had been laser focused on completing a draft of a novel so I could share it with my generous early readers, but then … I don’t even know what happened, and I haven’t slowed down enough to assess things.

Where is August? September? The summer!?

What I can say is, Destiny called, and I was more than eager to answer. When you put the desires of your heart out there in the Universe, don’t be surprised when you get just what you’ve asked for.

For me, Destiny came calling at the same time as resignation. I had tentatively accepted a second-shift office manager job but my savings account wouldn’t allow me to wait until the company was ready for me, so I signed up for temp assignment. Anyway, around that same time, a fella I casually knew posted on SM that he needed an intern to help him manage his theater and an upcoming production.

Well, I had been dragging my feet for a year…A YEAR! instead of reaching out to him for advice on breaking into theatrical work, so when this opportunity presented itself, I added myself to the conversation before I could chicken out.

Here we are three months later.

Back in January I announced that 2017 was going to bow down and submit to my ambition, beginning with publishing a novella I had been futzing with for years.

Well, the self-imposed deadline came and went, but 2017 ain’t over yet. Writing on the Wall is now a play and will open January 2018.

I’m pretty chuffed, but at the same time this opportunity is one I’ve been preparing for for years. There had been doubts and misgivings and all sorts of anguish surrounding this project. I thought the resistance to finish this was because I didn’t have the skill or experience necessary to deliver the story.

In June I went to a writers conference and met with an editor who confirmed the voice in my head: you need a film/TV agent because your stories aren’t right for print.

Well, I don’t have an agent (yet), but in a matter of hours I’ll be in the room with agents and publicists and journalists for stage and screen who have come for the show I’ve been assisting with, and I don’t doubt I’ll be pitching my own ideas as well.

I’ve said yes to too many things and people who weren’t in-line with my goals. It’s high time I said yes to my own dreams and spend my creative energies on my-own-damn-self. And you know what? I don’t have the slightest flutter of nerves. This is what I’ve been studying for. This is what I’ve spent thousands of hours writing and rewriting for. This moment is a culmination of training and sacrifice. It’s up to me to sustain my previous habits and adapt them to my new arena.

My prayers are being answered, and I have taken Destiny’s hand. All I had to do was say Yes.

 

May your hard work place you in the path of blessings so that you are prepared to receive them too.

If you’re in or around Chicago, come say hi and maybe check out The Indescribable Gift. Tickets are at www.mckayarts.net

Blessings, y’all!

Stitches: An Ode to My Ancestors

I’ve been bedridden for the past few days because what I thought was a stubborn head cold has become an upper respiratory infection. This malaise has me feeling bad physically and emotionally.

I have deadlines that I fear I won’t make because I’m too weak or in too much pain to get up or focus, and the cocktail of drugs I’m on has me dazed and sleepy. 

Anyway, I’m not here fishing for sympathies (yes I am)–I’m here to tell you a story. 

Sunday, I ventured from my sick bed and set myself up in the living room. The effort to walk the few feet really wiped me out, so I fell asleep with my puppy curled up on my feet. About forty minutes later I woke up feeling kind of good physically but my mind was foggy yet focused on one thing. 

On the back of my couch hangs a quilt–an unremarkable brown, red plaid, green and trimmed in brown courdorouy quilt. 

But my quilt IS remarkable. 

My great-great grandmother made that quilt, and it’s about the only thing I own that I truly cherish. Laying under Mama Callie’s quilt yesterday and inspecting its battle wounds got me thinking about the short story by Alice Walker called “Everyday Use.” My quilt has gnawed corners and disentigrated batting, frayed stitches, and a single missing square. I had noticed popped stitches years ago but didn’t repair them then because I had an image in my mind of me and my children with Mama Callie’s quilt stretched between us and our hands working to maintain this piece of family history in our own quilting bee. Now, though, the quilt shows her age and the effects of our every day use. 

I failed to protect this precious gift that was bestowed upon me several years ago in almost pristine condition. My mind, as foggy as it was, had me grab needle and thread. I couldn’t do much in my very weakened state, but I could push a needle through some old, worn fabric. 

As I stitched, I thought of “Everyday Use” and how these quilts were created to serve a purpose and not to be admired from behind museum glass. My great-great grandmother made this quilt to keep her family warm, and it’s doing its job all these generations later. 

Inevitably, I pricked my finger. And when that happened, my mind flooded with an image of a similar moment many unknown years before.

Stitch

Fingers travel over these squares, these scraps of life shredded and repurposed.

Chatter rises as hands work.

Community and communion.

Regeneration for the generations. 

A hiss and a swear is uttered as crimson dots emerge on the tips of index fingers and thumbs. But the hands never stop.

Life is in these squares of cloth. Ancestral DNA is fused within like the very strands in my being, making this thing alive.

Alone, I sew. 

I hiss and swear, but then I smile, grateful for the opportunity to weave my own blood, my own story into this tapestry as I stitch. 

(c) Daphne Marie

Writing on the Wall

I’m determined to clear out most of my WIPs this year. I’ve let too many good ideas languish because I was afraid — afraid of the scabs that would be picked off, afraid of the wounds that would ooze thick and dark all over my pages. Afraid to let myself fully heal. Afraid of true contentment.

Life ain’t all sprinkles and glitter. Some can attest to that more than others. *raises hand* There is always light and hope, though. As the saying goes, without darkness, one cannot appreciate the light.

Somehow I was inspired to tell a tale of survivor’s remorse jumbled up in a young man whose only wish is to join his best friend who passed away suddenly. I’m not sure when I started writing this story or why, but my goal (and since I’ve put it on the Internet for all to see and judge) is to have this novella published by early February 2017.

In the meantime, wet your whistle with my Pinterest board for the story, and here’s an unedited snippet:

“I carry you,
Like a scrap of paper or a lunch receipt.
Folded up neat but buried in this sack I call a body,
Mixed in with bits of Faulkner and Dr. Seuss,
Wood chips and pumpkin seeds,
Sugar cookies crumbs and tinsel.
You’re there.
Always
This piece of you I carry is all I have left.
What is left of you is me.
But what am I?
Who do you see?”
Julian stepped away from the mic and walked off the stage just as quietly as he arrived. Hollow. Every poem was the same, he just used different words. But the words had run out.

Blessings, y’all.