My thoughts today are forming like there is a very wise and very old Japanese man living in my head, twirling his beard around his finger, saying smart things about how rocks are like time. And so: when you are young, plays are for playing with friends and also fun. When you are kind of young but also kind of old, plays are for friends and fun and also expression of longing and angst. When you are older but still youngish, plays are OKAY I WROTE THIS THING OKAY TIME TO GIVE IT TO EVERY THEATER, DUCK AND PRAY, AND SO NOW HOW DO I PAY MY RENT?! HOW WILL THIS PLAY TURN INTO RENT? Beyond that, what do plays become? Why the plays? Why write them? For what for? Also playwrights get older, and busy with other jobs, I think we ask ourselves this. For me, it’s still the way my thoughts form, as plays, but you do get sort of existential about it and ask yourself why.
I will now tell you why.
I’d had a play on my mind, and so the other night, I just sat down and did it:
I told my internet theater friend community, and then 64 people asked to read it, and then I sent it to each of them. I wrote it, friends read it, and maybe someone does a monologue from it someday, or learns something new about themselves or humanity, or at least Beyonce. If something more happens with it, wonderful. Great. But if not: fine. THIS IS WHY PLAYS!