TT: Declaration of independence

I finished writing and editing the twelfth chapter of Mood Indigo: A Life of Duke Ellington (out of a projected seventeen) last night. As of today I’ve written 40,000 words of the first draft of Mood Indigo in my four-and-a-half weeks at the MacDowell Colony. On Wednesday I finished working on the final pre-rehearsal draft of Satchmo at the Waldorf, the one that John Douglas Thompson will start to memorize tomorrow, and I’ve also done a fair amount of work on the revised version of The Letter that will be premiered in February at Dicapo Opera Theatre in New York.
I reported these achievements to my best friend at MacDowell after I trudged back to Colony Hall from my studio last night, feeling both elated and exhausted. Then, without warning, I said something that took me by surprise: “You know what? I’m glad I’ve done all that work–that’s what I thought I came here to do–but I just realized that I haven’t really been present here. I know I’ve had a wonderful time and made some wonderful friends, but I feel like I’ve missed something…and I’m leaving on Monday.”
She looked at me and said, very seriously, “So what are you going to do about it?”
I paused. Then I blurted, “I’m not going to do any more work while I’m here–that’s what I’m going to do! I’m going to walk all around the colony and look at all the studios, and I’m going to walk all over Peterborough, and I’m going to let go of the book and the play! Completely! Let’s shake on it.”
We shook hands and started giggling like a couple of schoolchildren.
This morning at breakfast I said farewell to my friend, who is going back to the world this afternoon. Then I went into the kitchen and signed out for lunch. Nobody will be delivering a picnic basket to my studio today. I won’t be there. My work can wait–it’ll be there when I, too, return to the outside world. It always is. Instead I plan to spend the next three days reveling in the beauties of this miraculous place. It’s about time.
Thanks, friend.