You think you’ve got plenty of time, you actually do have plenty of time, and then the production crosses the rubicon and you realise that opening night is less than three weeks away – that’s less than the total number of digits on your body, which means that it’s not far away at all.
Yes: panic and hysteria are never far away from this writer.
Yes: this writer has full confidence in the team his producer has thrown together – haven’t you been reading his rehearsal reports? He thinks they’re just awesome.
So you’re wondering what the hell my problem is. I’ve attended most of the rehearsals so far, catching the odd word like provocation and motivation here and there, and the directors and actors haven’t been referring all that much to the script. Y’know, the 95-pages I slaved over, foregoing countless hours of Call of Duty and Left 4 Dead, a belated catch up with The Sopranos and Deadwood.
I think the real reason for my anxiety is that I’m experiencing in real-time and -life the once vicarious thrill and frisson of being in the middle of something bigger, something of which I can only discern a small part – not unlike the jollies I get with each rewatching of The Wire or laboriously rereading of my Alan Moore collection.
Yeah, that feeling.
It’s a little scary. But it’s exciting. And the esprit de corps of the team is positively cuddly.
Bring on the final fortnight.