bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

Let it be Done

January 29th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

I’d say that it’s rare on here that I divulge my inner most thoughts.  I share like the atmosphere, or crust, but rarely the inner core. But why have a blog if I don’t occasionally overshare? And so: feelings. Welcome, mother, father and one other person, to my pity party.

Lately, or rather, the last year or so, I’ve been feeling, well, washed up. As a writer of drama plays, or I guess any sort of writer, at some point, you ’emerge.’ You’re new and exciting and all of the fancy people and places are sniffing around your work, bestowing you with commissions and readings. During this emerging time, you either hit it big, hit it a little bit, or just sort of – fade away. It’s hard not to feel like I didn’t emerge hard enough, or enough at all.  I had Off-Broadway productions that were great, but didn’t get  enough attention to catapult me into a large and stable career. I had fancy tv and film meetings and opportunities, but my ideas weren’t sharp enough to really land anything. I busted my hoo ha all through my twenties, writing  fierce and hard, to earn myself a resting place that I guess I’m now in. I should feel rested, I should relax into this but instead I feel — listless? Uninspired? Mediocre? Like it’s all done? I don’t want it to be done.  It doesn’t have to be. But is it truly up to me? It doesn’t feel like it. It Feels like what’s done is done, my voice is my voice, and all I can do is write and hope that someday, something catches on in a big way and finally the New York Times is all, Bekah Brunstetter, it’s time for your feature, and I’m all, meet me at this obscure cafe in Brooklyn where I’ll drink a weird tea and you can take a picture of me by this old bike that’s not mine,  and you’ll ask, where did you come from? and I’ll say, with snark and tea, why, The New York Times, I have been here the entire time.

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