Perfect Night

The last 36 hours or so have turned out to be pretty satisfying.  I’m about three quarters the way through Act I of Highwaymen’s first episode.  Good stuff methinks.  Not only that, but I’m chomping at the bit to keep at ‘er.

It’s a good lesson.  The next time I get all twitchy about what I should write and how big the scope is, remind me of yesterday.  “Just write motherfucker.”  That’s what you’ll say to me… and I’ll even listen.

I had lunch with Don Kugler yesterday at a place called ‘The Alibi Room.’  He’s the Vancouver-based director who workshopped my play in May.  He likes the new draft.  Suggested a couple of tweaks, but they’re nothing that should stop me from sending it out.  He even gave me the names of Artistic Directors at theatre companies in Halifax, Montreal, Toronto, Saskatoon, Calgary, and Vancouver whom I should send it to.  He also said I should drop his name when I pitch ‘em.  That should give me a leg up on some of my fellow playwrights.

Later in the evening Ingrid Nilson texted me.  She’s a successful Vancouver actress who got started in Regina.  I helped her with a play she wrote called, ‘Not A Pretty Girl’ a few years ago.  We got to be good friends after that.  Anyhoo, Ingrid, myself and her beaux Lawrence met up on Kits Beach and found a place called ‘Local’ to sup at.  It turns out Ingrid knows the dramaturge at the Vancouver theatre company that Don told me about.  When I’m back in August, she’ll set up a meeting for all of us to have a face to face.  Connections are a big part of making things happen.

Funny story.  While waiting for them, a drunk guy sat down beside me and started chatting me up.  I humoured him with polite conversation in return.  He then declared that he was Scottish and started singing to me.  After a few minutes he left abruptly.

I am now writing this from my campsite, somewhere between Golden and Field on the Trans-Canada Highway.  Jazzy’s in the tent singing to herself and I’m watching the campfire burn down to nothing.  There’s hot chocolate in our bellies and there’s another camping memory freshly made.  It’s pitch black all around me.  I can here trains passing off in the distance and the wind whispers to us through the tree tops.

It’s a perfect night.

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