Were we not just speaking of cowboys? I think we were. Maybe not here, but we definitely were. Speaking about them, that is.
Sam Shepard and I were talking about writing plays. About character development. About how you find the essence of your characters perhaps in the way they walk or the way they hold their cigarette or even in just the way they chew their food. That it is that one quirk, that small thing, that can spark the entire reason for that character to be in your play.
(What, you didn't know Sam and I were friends?)
I begged him to please shower me with some Sambrilliance, as I call it, so that I could perhaps finish the play that has been sitting unfinished on my laptop for what feels like ages and ages and ages. I know, yes of course I know, that if I would stop blogging and journaling and actually just sit and WRITE THE DAMN THING (as the brilliant Sam reminded me) I would actually finish it, but then, well, what would become of Nakedjen the blog?
Of course at that point Jessica Lange chimed in and things got very steamy. Because, well, I can not resist Jessica. That voice. Those eyes. That hair. It was just all over. Plus it's hot here. The kind of hot that just makes things charged and quite sexual. So things led to other things that led to us all being naked.
(Of course we were naked. It's me! We're going to get naked!)
Now not that I didn't enjoy that part of it, but honestly, it's the Sambrilliance that really attracts me much more than the Sampenis. Seriously. I know, I know. There are many of you shaking your heads at that. But let's remember that I am a girl who has read, no voraciously consumed is more appropriate, every single word that Sam has ever written. Every.single.one. I've taken Master classes with him. I have made a point to see all of his productions. Here, there, everywhere.
(I know you're thinking we need to lock me up in a padded cell. That Sam needs protection from me!)
While Jessica was having her post-coital cigarette, I was right back to mining Sam's brain. Asking more questions. Begging him for more answers. Write about what I know, of course. Cut.Cut.Cut. Never use more words than necessary. And never be afraid of the long pauses, the silence, the dark.
The other evening, while the Architect and I were sharing a bottle of wine (that's becoming a common theme around here, isn't it?) he asked me to please choose two or three of my favorite plays by Sam Shepard and give them to him to read. What my heart did in the moment of that request I'll just let you all guess. I know you can guess. I don't think even I was prepared for what my heart did in response to that request!
The tragic part of this is that during the divorce sale in a moment of true madness I actually sold my entire Sam Shepard collection save for one play. One play! What on earth was I thinking? Well, obviously, I was not thinking. I was distraught, I was morose, I was operating on auto-pilot and jettisoning my entire previous existence as quickly as possible. Sam Shepard was sold for a quarter along with everything else.
So to share my most favorite playwright of all time in all the world with the Architect, I have to replace all those books. Yes, replace them. I could, yes, just go to the library which I'm sure has its own collection of Sam Shepard. They must! However, I'd rather own them all again. I know, I know. I sold them all for a quarter. Now I'm buying them all again. That's the insanity of divorce! I'm even buying some of them from a used bookseller in Santa Cruz. If I get my OWN copies back, I'm just going to laugh and laugh and laugh.
Meanwhile, I think I'll share my own play with the Architect. The one Sam helped me with. And see what he has to say about it. It does have a cowboy. And weren't we speaking of cowboys?
