We are often told not to look back in anger, but I am learning not to look back in happiness either. Indulging in reminiscence can leave you emotionally paralysed.
On Saturday night I concluded a three week intense creative project: Poets Platform at Stratford East Theatre Royal, London. 
Directed by 2005 World Slam Champion Kat Francois, it was a theatrical ensemble with interwoven dialogues and monologues made up of poems rather than a traditional script.
In the space of three weeks, 15 poets came together to write, devise and perform a new 60 minute piece of cutting edge theatre.
Two weeks into the process the buzz of writing something that would have a guaranteed outlet to a live audience was pumping such adrenaline through my veins it made me think if everyone wrote poetry (at least as well and intensely as I do) then drug dealers would be out of business.
I welcomed the sleepless nights in which I was researching and writing my pieces. One night, with my internet connection down, I had to make use of the 24 hour Wi-Fi service in Starbucks, St Pancras, venturing out into the cold to execute my inspiration. Very little in life is worth such sacrifice, but as writers, sacrificing is all we can do to find that inner peace, be it our sleep, nutrition or an “adequate” social life. This was lesson number one, a reiteration of what I have discovered many times: there is no point doing anything unless you are willing to go to the ends of the earth for it ,or to put it simply, commit. Some things in life we have to condition ourselves to commit to; others we feel a natural inclination towards. To experience the latter you have to do what you love in life rather than love what you do.
A workshop for Poets Platform @ Stratford East
At this stage in the process I was in love with the project, singing Don’t Stop Me Now every morning in the shower, rendering my housemates suicidal.
This was a unique and special opportunity and nothing was going to get in the way. From losing my mobile phone to being threatened with eviction during the process, I could not let anything seep out the mental energy I needed to deliver and prove my ability not just to myself but to the audience and everybody else involved in the process. After several workshops and redrafting of poems came one week (last week) of full on rehearsals (technically they were not rehearsals as as we were still devising the production from the poems) with the performances to follow on the Friday and Saturday night.
Time was short and the pressure was on to deliver jaw dropping poetic magic. By Wednesday I felt I was bungee jumping without a rope; plunging into despair from a triumphant high of consistent quality writing. A voice inside was telling me I’m simply a writer not a performer. There was no place for me in the world except my bedroom, behind my laptop typing away. I was not the only one feeling this way.
The play was not coming together for us writers turned performers. Then the assistant director gathered us together, recognising our fear she told us something which will stay with me forever.
A theatre is the safest place in the world. We can try anything we like without being judged, bringing out our true selves. It is not a classroom or an office where convention and rules must be followed. Suddenly something clicked. Two things I have complained about all my post-teen life (not quite mature enough to call myself an adult) are convention and loneliness. This was a chance to experiment, not alone with a sheet of paper, but with fellow writers, budding performers, directors and most importantly an audience. From that afternoon things picked up dramatically. We all pulled out our best.
By 7pm the show was taking shape. Three hours earlier I was secretly hoping no one would turn up so I could avoid embarrassing myself. 5 days later I was glad I didn’t listen to the voice inside.
Then, the first performance.
On stage, in front of a full house, I felt connected to all my fellow performers and every single audience member. Thinking one step ahead at every second, preparing for my next move, I had never felt so alive. By Saturday night the bond between us all was stronger. We had come together, mostly as complete strangers and created something in a short time that disturbed the audience one second then had them laughing the next.
Knowing this night would be the last time we were all together like this meant we had to deliver beyond our capabilities to ensure we left each other with pleasurable memories. Like visiting a friend for the last time who is fading from a terminal illness, the final moment has to be the best, the happiest. Everything you put in comes out at that concluding moment.
By Sunday morning I was constantly closing my eyes and thinking back to the security and safety I felt on stage, often void when interacting with people on a daily basis. It’s funny, theatre.
But it is time to move on, to get back to the blank sheets of paper and fill them with words to be performed again, if not by me then at least by others.
Lesson number two, overcome nostalgia and look forward. Things always get better. Just as on Wednesday morning we were all flummoxed by our own identities -were we writers or performers? - and by Saturday we had created something for which there are already requests to do again on a bigger stage, so in life; if you stay committed things get better. What a way to learn such an important lesson. Educational theorists and policy makers take note.
