I’m in the midst of a zoom workshop / rehearsal for my new play, Mother’s Day, which is basically just a dramatized play by play of our journey to Joe. It’s about what happens when our bodies betray us, and the quote unquote injustice of things not going Exactly our Way. As I sift through the soul vomit, giving the scenes actual structure and the characters actual specificity, I realized something about my writing process: I am ABSOLUTELY not a perfectionist. If I was, I feel like I would never get anything done. Instead, I work on a scene and think, this is Okay, this is better than it was, this is good enough for now. It’s not that I think perfection isn’t possible, it’s more like I see it way down the road. I need actors and a director and if TV, producers and executives, to help me get it there. I can get there, just not on my own. And I think this is maybe why I’m not a novelist or a poet? I can’t do it alone, and I don’t want to. And maybe mediocrity is a just a mean word for, letting it be just Okay, for now.