April 15, 2022

Brilliant morning. Making a play in my head, then on the screen, for the first time in many months. It’s joyful, restorative. But reading in my Stanislavsky history makes me feel bad (worse) about my own life as a playwright. No one has ever waited breathlessly for the next act of my play. Never once have I had a slot in a season without already having written the play. I remember a quip–I forget whose it was– from the old Magnetic, “Well, I have my slot, now I’d better write my play!” As for that, no one has awaited anxiously my next chapter, the completion of the longed-for manuscript. I have consistently laid the table before anyone was hungry.

Progress on September.