Yesterday morning, Easter Fool’s Day, I awoke to the news that my one-act play did not make the final cut for Scripps Ranch Theatre’s Out on a Limb program. They choose eight people’s ideas (I was one of the eight) in January, and the eight have until the end of February to complete a rough draft of a sixty-minute play. I did this.
The readers’ comments (which were included in the rejection) were terrific. (Except for one. I had given the reader cause for animal peril, in spite of the truthfulness of my work in which no animal is harmed. I will fix this in the next draft because I don’t want anyone to be pulled from the play worrying about animals.) With comments like these, I would happily go forward into production.
The play needs only five actors, a simple set, and allows actors ample opportunity to flesh out their characters physically and emotionally. As one who has directed in the past, I see lots of fun in blocking and direction.
But I got a NO.
I get rejected on a regular basis. My acceptance rate is pretty high at about five percent. Some opportunities I just really want more than others. This was one of those.
Rejection sometimes makes me question my resilience. Do I really want to carry on? I could be gardening, or reading, or chatting with friends. Is what I have to say still relevant? If a tree falls and no one is there, does it make a sound? You know, existential angst.