If Script Frenzy were described as a metaphorical war, I know where I’d be. I wouldn’t be one of those brave soldiers that made it across the trenches to face glory in the homeland. I wouldn’t be one of those valiant ol’ boys who made it halfway, only to perish under a barrage of enemy fire.

No. I’d be the guy who, as the general cries “CHARGE!” is lighting a cigarette. Startled into activity, he blazes out ahead of his comrades. He gets to a point where he realizes the bulk of his unit is still behind him. So he sits his butt down in a hole, and finishes with that cigarette. Every so often he pops his head out, checks where everyone else is on the field, then returns to smoking. He writes some poetry. “Maybe this’ll be the next Flanders Field,” he tells himself. A few stray bullets almost hit his helmet, and this frightens him. He tells himself he wasn’t in his right mind when he enlisted, anyway. So he stays in the hole, until the battle is over.

What is this clumsy, two-legged mule of an analogy trying to say?

I did not pull through.

Looking at my beer and cappuccino tally, I’m of a mind to think that the lack of imbibing was directly responsible. Truthfully though, it was a bunch of distractions and an absence of will or desire strong enough to overcome them. If I were to do Script Frenzy again, and I think I will attempt it, I’d have to go in with a more solid plan for my script, and make sure to get more deeply entrenched in the community, to feed off of the frenzy, to use that mammalian hive-mind like a naked mole rat.

I’m trying to decide what to do with the >30 pages I did bung out. I fear to read them. I think I’ll let them stew, and then go back and see what it was I concocted.

Congrats to all those who won and lost, so long as you enjoyed it along the way!