I was shooting the shiz with some playwrights last night and we all had some pretty spectacular stories of terrible reviews. Like I was briefly trapped on an elevator with Charles Isherwood once en route down to my play, which he later tore a new bum hole. Another writer was avoiding reading her LA times review, until, while on a bus, the paper BLEW ONTO HER LAP OPEN TO IT. And so on, and so forth. Sad and hilarious tales of woe, of confidence or lack thereof, of feeling misunderstood, of profanity, of Facebook fights, of lost opportunities, of Chardonnay, of the will to go / write on.

AND SO: I think I m going to collect and compile these stories. I don’t know what for, but I really think they’d be fascinating. Playwrights feel a lot of envy for each other, and we don’t talk about it, not nearly enough, but instead craft narratives of the other playwright’s smooth, joyous career in our minds.  I think it’d be valuable for us all to hear about each other’s dark moments of New York Times and Despair. And so, I’m going to do that. I’LL SLEEP WHEN I’M DEAD Y’ALL AND PROBABLY ALSO TONIGHT

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