Year 1, Day 282 - Shakespeare Institute - Hitting the Keyboard.

I'm not sure I know how to write anymore.  In the past few months I've been interviewing people, transcribing the interviews, scanning and coding them, then doing it all over again.  I think I'm doing good research, yet I haven't written any of the 15,000 words for my dissertation.  I'm reading books I think will help, talking with really smart people, I've met with my adviser twice (this Thursday will mark the third meeting), and yet, I am still waiting to begin.  I am excited to begin this line of inquiry, and after today's interview I have yet another one to transcribe, I have all the books I need from the library to begin, and yet... I'll admit it, I'm a little scared.

Okay, a lot scared.  I am now on a first name basis with an RSC designer whose work I admire and a researcher whose work inspired me to pursue my PhD.  My professors are world-class academics, my local community theatre is the damn Royal Shakespeare Company, and I have now designed two Shakespearean shows (the second one is on its way in mid-July) in Shakespeare's own home town.  I live four doors down from Shakespeare's Birthplace for God's sake.  I see posts from friends back in the States saying how they are looking forward to seeing the National Theatre's screening of all these shows I could probably go see in person myself, and 75% of the books on my shelf right now are Shakespearean in nature (I have a copy of Sir Henry Irving's Complete Works.)  I am about to start writing the paper that will begin my academic career, and I don't know how to do it.

I guess I'm writing today because I want to prove to myself that if my fingers hit the keyboard enough times a coherent thought will appear, though I haven't yet tried typing with my forehead.  I'm writing here so that I don't embarrass myself when I write elsewhere.  I write here because once again I have found myself an environment where almost everyone in town has accepted their reality and are quite-frankly nonchalant about their existence.  Everyday life occurs, there are bar fights on Saturday nights where the cops are called in, there are tourists taking pictures, there is a Starbucks, an H&M, and a McDonalds in town.  We walk by the river Avon, and it feels as if I'm the only one who thinks, "How the hell did I get here?"  I could be walking the banks of the Nile, the Amazon, or seeing Mt. Everest for the first time and it would not feel as special as this.

Anymore of this and I'm gonna need a paper bag to breathe out of with side order of Xanax.

I have one week of transcription ahead of me, and then I'll be off to the races.  I'll be typing in no time, and probably find out that I have more to say than I originally thought.  I don't need to stress about the people I meet, only because I think the reason that they live here... is that they think living and working in Stratford-upon-Avon is just about as cool as I think it is.  In the meantime, I think I've sufficiently proven to myself that I still know how to form sentences.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. -- A Midsummer Night's Dream, II.i

p.s. I know where this is too. -DJG.

Year 1, Day 282 - Words Written: 000