Not literally, of course, but at the moment I almost wouldn't mind having a leg in plaster if it meant I didn't have to go on stage tonight.
I've never thought of myself as an actress and only agreed to take the part to help a friend. I should have known better. I suppose I was flattered to be asked, and the previous productions I've taken part in have been good for me. I've enjoyed meeting the rest of the cast, I've learned much about what makes a good script and I've had fun. This time, however, it hasn't been fun, only a worry.
I've been nervous from the first rehearsal, and the anxiety has grown–will I remember my lines? Will the actor I'm on stage with remember theirs, or will I have to ad lib? Will I miss my entrance or trip over my costume? As a result, the play has not only taken up my Friday evenings for months, but every spare moment has been spent repeating lines until I'm sick of them, but I daren't stop in case I forget them.
There's been no room in my head for daydreaming and letting my thoughts drift to let writing ideas or the next chapter of my novel take shape. It's driving me mad.
I have a significant birthday–one with a nought on the end–coming up, and it's time I learned not to get involved in other people's projects when someone else could do them just as well, if not better, especially when the outside projects bring me no joy and/or make life difficult.
It isn't being selfish, only realistic. Writers need to protect their time. If I don't prioritise my work or treat it as important, no one else will. I'm not suggesting anyone should turn their back on people who need them, only that they should not feel obligated to take part in things.
Once the play is over, I might see it in a rosier light–never say never, after all, but if I'm tempted, I'm going to reread this and be warned!