Fried

I was going to say something really profound about how playwriting sometimes feels like sifting through grains of rice, but I’m so brain dead from days of thinking and re-thinking and writing and re-writing that I’ll just say:

And let you pull from it what you will. It’s the blessing and the curse of a wonderfully long workshop process, getting a bit braindead towards the end.  To unfairly compare myself to someone who’s actually doing something impressive, one must push through the last 2 miles of the marathon, and still discover new things, fix problems.

Please note also that playwriting is also like taking back roads, eating too many gummi  bears, falling in love, breaking up, getting caught in the rain with a broken umbrella, petting farm animals, waking up from a dream that felt real, outlet shopping, hiking, giving birth (probably), being 11 and deciding to make a casserole from everything in your parent’s poor kitchen, thrift shopping, waiting for big news, but mostly, it’s just like this:

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