Melting.

In the last few years, I've started to think of my writing process as "tempering the weirdness," which is all well and good by itself. My work does tend to start out very strange and boil down to much more straightforward stories by the end and it's stronger for that. But as of late I think I've been clamping down too much, not embracing the stage for what it is - a stage. Setting scenes in concrete places, in living rooms and lobbies - making it feel solid.

Solid.

Too solid.

No. No.

My theater is liquid.

I was happy with where my writing was two years ago, when I told a story on a bare stare with lights and sound and dialogue - poetry, if that's not too pretentious of me. Two and three years ago, when my protagonist told the world she didn't call the shots and yet exhibited masterful control over lighting cues. Self-aware. Theater as theater.

There is a time and place for realism, but I miss creating magic.

Time to peel back the restraints. Time to let the weirdness back in. Time to dig down and find the poetry again.

Okay.

Here goes.