I’m staring at a notepad with more inky swirls on it than words.
One more swirl makes its way onto the page.
I cannot come up with a title to save my life.
“Beyond the Veil,” my left brain suggests.
“If you say one more thing about ‘the veil,’ you have to pour this scalding hot coffee down your shirt,” my right brain retorts.
“THINK!” This time I say it out loud.
I pick up the coffee cup. My left brain is sullenly quiet. “This was supposed to help,” I think as I take a sip out out of the cream colored mug. I look out at the cafe I’ve settled into and listen to the light bustle of cafe life that apparently inspires creativity.
I am officially a producer. For this moment at least. One show. And it is completely, irrefutably mine to produce. To make happen. I’ve torn down the old set, bought the mod fabric, replaced the rug, picked out anything mint I could get my hands on, lined up the guests, set dates, made phone calls. The only real thing left to do is name the damn thing. And to name it something other than “Beyond the Veil,” or something as equally horrible. “Beyond the Veil” is what you put on to make your kids fall asleep; it’s your 90-year-old Guppie’s favorite show, the one she, too, falls asleep to sometime in the afternoon.
Another swirl makes its way onto the page.
Perhaps creativity is waiting in the boutique next door. I did see some truly inspiring colors in there…