I am my own critic

We are now a mere DAYS away from inviting humans into see the Notebook. There are moments when it feels perfect and cathartic and I want to cry because of how much all the years of work have been been worth it and because of how much I love the story, and there are moments when I feel like I’ve gotten it all wrong. A play is never done but you invite people in anyways to learn from their shared laughter and silence and the moments when they drift away, thinking about emails and climate change and gum. The house isn’t ready and everything’s still in the oven and your laundry’s on the couch and still, you invite them in. Early reviews are already in from the biggest asshole critic there ever was, MYSELF. Brunstetter does not know human people. Brunstetter’s book lacks the longing and sense of place of the movie. Brunstetter’s dialogue makes me wonder why I left my house, every time the characters started talking I wished they would shut up and start singing because at least that’s beautiful. If worrying is is rehearsing the problem, these imagined reviews are a sweater I can hide in during previews, burrowing in on the balcony, hoping that the worst and hardest critic is Myself. I love this worst part, and I LIVE FOR IT.

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