When You Wish
I turn around after a couple fumbles through “When You Wish Upon a Star” on the fiddle by memory, and I’m greeted by two books I always wanted (and finally got) about lesbian playwrights in New York in the 80s.
I feel crushed for a second. Not only was I not a lesbian playwright in New York in the 80s, I couldn’t even make the time to read books about them. And I’m playing fucking “When You Wish Upon a Star” by heart on a busted old fiddle and not doing particularly well.
I’m not a master craftsman; I’m a fucking dabbler. You were concertmaster! Of an underfunded rural high school string orchestra. You won a writing award! A small one, six years ago, and they didn’t even pay the full amount they advertised. It goes on like this: you did, well, no, you didn’t.
Everybody was almost somebody. Maybe if I hadn’t gone so lo-fi on my second record. Maybe if I could just commit to one large-scale project instead of shitting out these little stories.
I wanted to write beautiful–, started to, but struck it.
The liberal conceit of being a somebody is realizing what a nobody everyone else is.