Every now and then, ie right now, I feel totally tapped in terms of Material. All of the big questions I’m asking about life, relationships, the way the world works, etc are wrapped up in plays I’ve already written, and I’m sort of waiting for the next thing to befuddle or grip me. It could be that there is something massive happening in my life right now, but I’m so inside of it, I can’t even tell, and years from now I’ll look back on this time fondly, and with clarity and hilarity, kinda like I do now with middle school. But what am I meant to do in the meantime? Writers get so wrapped up in writing that we forget to live. I’m not one to write about something just because it fascinates me, I have to find my personal way into it, so just wandering around a museum or scaling a mountain doesn’t seem productive. But I also shouldn’t just sit and wait in the middle of my life for something to happen to me, hovering in a standstill. Instead, I think I’ll just allow myself to be inspired by the tiny, stupid things that are currently striking my fancy, like what am I meant to do when I’m stuck on the train with someone wearing the same shoes as me? Am I supposed to acknowledge this with some knowing smile like we’re in a secret club and both know the password, which is the shoe? Or pretend like it’s not happening, at all?