compass, divining rod, sextant, map

So, lately I've been in a bit of a rut. About a month ago, I wrote ten pages, as an assigned exercise, along the lines of "don't think, just write." After a little editing, I liked what I wrote--it's a good start for some kind of inner voice for this piece. After that, however, I've been stuck. The more I go back to Margery's book, the more I feel confused--what am I doing? Am I telling her story, my story, no story? The idea of little "vignettes" from her life, acted out by puppets, just seems irritating to me. But 50 more pages of "inner voice" can't be it, either. I've believed (since reading "the silent woman" in the pages of the New Yorker many moons ago,) that biographers tell their own stories while telling those of another, that they often reveal as much about themselves as about their subject, even if they attempt to be objective, analytical, etc., one sees the writer through the cracks. And I am not really attempting to be objective--this is not a scholarly work. Part of the conceit of the show is the acknowledgement that I grew up in a very different time and place from Margery, and it's possible that all I will be able to do in presenting any part of her life to a contemporary audience is to project my own experience onto her. (And so, possibly, will the viewers.) There's something in the whole "we cannot see ourselves," aspect to this that's important, but I can't figure out what it is, exactly, or how to use it . . .