October 18, 2021

Blazing perfect autumn day. Fed my (now eight) flock of turkeys from the bag of corn I bought for them. 

Reread The Frankenstein Rubrics in preparation for our meeting tomorrow. It may be the worst play I’ve ever written. It’s like someone else’s first work, full of quips and ironies and the scintillant absurdities which stand in the mind of the young for depth. Clever, witty, directionless. But will I cancel the production? No, of course not. Indifference has so often greeted what I thought were masterpieces, maybe the irony will endure and what I consider a bit of an embarrassment will triumph.