Nevertheless, I have to write one. So I sat down at my desk, gritted my teeth, and scribbled this down without pausing:
Long ago, or maybe only yesterday, two adult granddaughters of a storyteller/maskmaker pack up Grandma’s studio after her death, and while there they re-tell her stories and wear her masks, learning new things about themselves. Grandma’s Masks is about the elusive nature of truth and the illusion of safety. It’s about the search for identity, and finding a place where you belong.
That’s as far as I got. It’s not enough. So I’ll go back to the desk and scribble some more. Yippee. Do you feel sorry for me? Probably not.
And so it ends, or maybe it is just beginning.