# of pages written: 4 – none of it useable
# of days left to write 1st draft: 135
Today a very fuzzy memory came back to me. The summer after fifth grade some friends of mine and I wrote a play. From what I recall, we wrote it in a spiral-bound notebook, taking suggestions from everyone as to what the characters should say and what should happen next. It was about the survivors of a ship-wreck who find themselves stranded together on an island.
After we finished writing the play, we declared it a masterpiece and decided we should preform it in my friend Elizabeth’s back yard. We cast the roles and practiced our lines and asked Elizabeth’s mom if we could paint the side of the garage as a backdrop. She said yes, but I don’t think we ever actually painted it. In my memory I can see what we had wanted it to look like: blue water and a strip of yellow sand with palm trees in the distance.
We blocked out the scenes in Elizabeth’s overgrown back yard under the blazing summer sun. We made programs and tickets and discussed the best way to advertise. We planned on charging at least a dollar and running the play throughout the rest of the summer. We all spent the night at Elizabeth’s house and lay in our sleeping bags on her floor, running through our lines.
But for some reason, we never performed the play. Summer ended and we started sixth grade at Woodrow Wilson Middle School. A year later, I wasn’t really friends with those girls anymore. They were my friends from elementary school, and I was older and more mature now – I hung out at the mall and had a crush on a boy who smoked cigarettes. I thought about how naïve we’d been to think people would actually pay money to watch a bunch of eleven-year-olds perform a silly play in someone’s backyard.
The thing is, they might have.