I got asked the other day in a talk back how many full length plays I’d written. I guessed –  30?  Yesterday I swept through the ol’ desktop, re-organizing drafts and drafts and drafts (sidenote: playwrights, KEEP ALL OF YOUR DRAFTS FOREVER. Rewriting A Long and Happy Life these past few weeks, I returned to the very first draft from nearly 3 years ago, and pillaged it with great success.) I did a quick count, and sure enough, at the Ripe age of 30, I have now written 30 full length plays. Success, or lunacy? Either way, I love this symmetry. (I am intentionally not counting the Sound of Music Reenactments / House Fires / Swastika rain / crucifixions of my first plays, but rather, only the plays that I would, in my right mind, give to another human being to read.)

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