I am a playwright. I write plays. Create theater.

So what happens when I cancel a show that I wrote? And read long guilt trip texts from my now-super-pissed director? And write apology emails to the entire cast, and the people running the theater? Am I still a playwright then?

What am I when I completely lose my inspiration and don’t want to do this anymore? When thinking about it makes me heavy with dread?

If I’m not a playwright, do I become No Longer Interesting? Do I find something new to do? Some way to be creative that actually feels fun?

I don’t know. But when a lot of people are angry, you tend to just mostly feel like a goblin who has ruined everyone’s time.

do you crave light like I do

The stars said I need to write. I know they see me. The world is coming back to life and the draft is still unfinished. Do I start it all over or try to land the plane in a random field somewhere, just to say it’s done?

The shitty first draft. A play that can be worked and reworked and cast and rehearsed and turned into a story playing to a room of people who might or might not care.

When I started writing it, quarantine had just started and I was lonely. Am still lonely. Writing a play about a three-way in quarantine seemed fun. Create characters when there aren’t any around you. At first it was fun. The words came easily. Scenes and ideas and dialogue, funny and dark and sexy.

Things eventually started getting murky. Nothing felt like it had a point. Theater didn’t exist. Anger and fire were everywhere. The story felt frivolous and privileged. The words stopped coming.


But we aren’t there anymore. Not in that exact moment anyway. Even if that moment is still felt. The sun is out and people have emerged. Theaters are opening and their stories are full of timely heaviness that we are all too accustomed to anyway. I crave light, maybe other people do too.

So there you have it.

New moon intents in sweet sweet delicious Taurus

It’s a new moon. I usually don’t set intentions for these, but it’s in Taurus, which is my sign, so why not start here. This is a time for starting magic. So come with me while I figure things out.

According to my astrology bible, the moon is exalted when it’s in Taurus, stronger than it would be otherwise. Productive, giving, generative. There’s a need for stable, reliable comforts. Sensual pleasures. Building in areas that bring a sense of security. So that projects can be conceived and birthed.

Hm. Okay. Brilliant.

In the next two weeks, I want to turn my home into a zen palace. I want to make it into the most serene, nurturing, healing spot I possibly can. Candles, crystals, plants, pillows, a bed that comforts and heals, a space that inspires.

And in that inspiring space, I want to start writing again. Starting with a monologue. Write a little every day. Build that muscle back up. It doesn’t have to hurt or be hard. Fill your cup until it overflows out onto a page. And then another page. And then pages.


the addictive creative buzz

I wrote a play about dominatrixes and it’s opening this week. I’m charged up with electricity and anxiety and excitement. 

Playwriting means basically have a child, put that child fully in the care of a team of people you trust, and hope for the best. 

When I see things coming together, it makes me really excited. It makes me want to keep going. I worked really hard writing this play. I remember days where I felt hopeless, struggling to get the finished product to be anywhere near how I had seen it in my head. Writing draft after draft. Feeling like I was shouting into a vacuum. And now we’re here.

Buckle up because the cycle is soon to repeat.

Terror Praise

I’ve been working with a dramaturg/mentor to polish a play I wrote (or I should say, a play that fell out of me) after the last breakup. This afternoon she showered compliments on it. And that is not what she does. She reminded me of that several times. That she was not an easy laugher and that she did not just “blow shit up skirts.”

She was such an emphatic champion of what I was doing, it was almost unnerving. She praised the way I string words together to say things, the way scenes got buttoned up, the weird absurdist jokes, everything. She said the play was ready to be read. Submitted to local theaters. That it could be taken to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

It was all I’d wanted to hear. It was also completely terrifying.

The fear of failure. The fear that everyone hears. The fear that you can’t do the thing.

But you can.

And in actuality, it’s simple. You just put one foot in front of the other and keep doing the next small step towards the big thing. That’s how you wrote this whole draft to begin with. Don’t paint pictures or predict the future. Just keep writing. And follow your mentor’s advice.

It’ll be okay. Don’t panic. People believe in you.

By the way, you can do the creative thing too. Whatever it is. I trust you. It’ll be okay.

Slouching Towards Mindfulness

A lot of activity has occurred over the past week. Have been moving around a lot. There’s been so much to see. So much action. Life and world developments. Keep keep going. Keep reading and hearing about stranger and stranger news. Keep writing and keep growing and experiencing and trying more ambitious things.

So no wonder this morning hit and it felt impossible to get up. No wonder three hours shot by with the eye-opening realization that nothing had actually been accomplished today.

Eventually a few things happened. A walk. An attempt at writing. Cooking up some food. A beautiful nap (maybe doesn’t count as accomplishment). Lots of water and tea. Meditating.

Have only just started trying that last one. They say meditation helps. I don’t know who They is. But They are right. Positive changes start to appear even after a week or two of persistence. But the act has a misconception about it. That you will sit there until your mind clears and empties, or you’ll fail.

But that’s not how the mind works. A blissed-out brain drain is the stuff of hypno-fantasies that fetishists (like myself, I’ll admit) work into their erotic daydreams. I, for instance, had a recurring sex dream this morning where I was staring at a soft light and chanting submissive phrases to a dominant figure offstage who I never see, until everything feels fuzzy. Then I woke up. A sex dream without sex.

But anyway. That’s me. And that’s way beside the point.

Meditation is not what I just described. It’s the opposite of a haze. It’s alert. Aware. A check-in. What are you feeling, thinking, hearing, remembering? Where does it hurt? Where does it tingle? How’s the weather in your mind today?  That’s all.

And weirdly, that’s so much. It somehow starts to clear space in your head, for feelings to emerge and make themselves felt. Joy can spring up and surprise you, and so can tears. Sometimes they do that in a movie or ad that you don’t even think is very good. Moments of quiet also assert themselves in the middle of a chaotic work day or a whirlwind to-do list. Stop. Contemplate. Plan your immediate next move, and just go from there.

And tonight, the body is so tired. There’s a brilliant full moon outside that’s supposedly about harnessing creativity, but working on projects today felt exhausting, and the words and lines didn’t quite feel right. Also it seems like whenever the moon does anything, someone shouts that it’s the perfect time to do some kind of creative or romantic thing.

Anyway. The body is tired now. And you feel that too. So you sit on your bed with your hands on your knees. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, and you listen to your breath coming slowly in and out. It sounds like ocean waves pulling in and crashing over themselves. It calms. Clears. And it’s all connected.

Or something like that.

Feel Pain Write Plays

I met him a year ago. And he left me several months ago. There’s an arbitrary rule that healing needs to take half the amount of time that you dated. But that is pointless and ridiculous. Especially when a breakup comes with so much PTSD.

At first I tried to follow that rule. Get better get better quick quick quick. Because I didn’t want to be stuck in sadness and pain from that monster. The ex. The person who still voices every criticism I lob at myself. I tried to get on online dating because “that’s what people do” when they get to a certain point in singledom. But it’s not for me. Not now, at least. Every bad date and pointless fuck and unexplained ghosting gets at me and makes me hurt. More than it should.

It’s not supposed to feel that heavy. It used to be fun. Like a game. Adventure. Now even small rejections and left swipes sting like he’s leaving and yelling at me on a street corner again.

Fall is beautiful and it has me so restless. It’s easy to get caught up in it and want to pair up before the weather gets too cold. Because how else will you get through winter if he’s not in your bed with his hair and smell and bare chest and warm arms?

You just will. And it’s not even winter yet.

Don’t worry. Just take care of yourself and start making plans. For writing. For singing and dancing and insanity. For play readings in your apartment with friends and pizza. For reading and relaxing and doing good things for your body. For trips to New York City and San Francisco and Scotland and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Just relax and keep going.