I don’t know about you, but MY favorite part of the playwriting process is when none of it is working and all of it is bad and none of it makes sense, and everyday you wake up trying to say a different thing with it, with a new idea that FEELS brilliant but then, in execution, falls on its face, and so you just walk around mad at yourself, in a constant state of emotional constipation, waiting for the play to text you back, angry at Time for being both vast and slipping. I guess I also like the part where the play is ‘done’ and you get to drink wine and watch it.
I promised myself I’d write one more play before I become a Mother to not just plays, but to a person. Usually when I set these arbitrary goals and deadlines for myself, I meet them. But the play is meant to be my opus on all we went through the last few years to get to this place. Maybe calling it an opus is my first problem. But all of the doors into it are locked. I can barely see in the windows. My brain won’t do it, my heart won’t do it, so I’m stuck in a loop of the most torturous part of the creative process, which might be like crowning but for like 9 years? I’m going to keep trying to break in. Stay tune to see if I get in, give up, OR IF I AM, IN FACT, CURRENTLY LIVING THE PLAY, WHICH IS THE PLAY.