January 6, 2018

Feast of the Epiphany.

Still unable to get to the studio, or to endure once there. Polished Nighthawks, tried to find homes for scripts, joined NPX, the new play exchange. I am not sanguine about the prospect, but what can be lost except time? In a nap dream I was a kind of entertainer that made his song appear in immense figures in the sky. People loved me when I sang. I was happy.

Intended to attend Night Music rehearsal, but awoke from my nap already 40 minutes late.

I made some sort of mistake. I have too many poems ever to effect or control their publication, too much fiction ever to effect or control its publication, too many plays to submit or keep track of them. I thought creation rather than distribution was the place to put my energies, but experience has rendered that an error.