Tonight, I sat in a living room in North Carolina and listened to some local friends here read my play about some kids on a porch in Durham, North Carolina.
Featured in the photo to this blurb's left: actors and people listening.
It's amazing what substantial time away from a play can change how I hear it.
Six months ago, my mentor went to a reading and told me it was missing 20 pages, plus more sex and violence. I said "PSHAH" (which is a thing I never say, you guys) and also "Uhh there's a lot of sex and violence."
But tonight I was like "Oooh. Yeah. It's, for sure, missing 20 pages. And some sex."
Jury's out on the violence, Thurber.
But, as usual, you're probably right.
Mr. T read stage directions. Not my friend Jon Haas, featured here.
Mr. T did.
Sometimes, you just gotta get in your car and drive south.
Sometimes, you gotta take one last trip in your Nissan before you sell it and go to your happy place.
Sometimes you gotta sit on the side of a mountain in your firefighter friend's house and do nothing.
Sometimes you have to go back to the town you went to college with and see old friends and new friends who put on gold lame (luh-may) visors and eat power tools with their teeth because they can and because things are more possible in North Carolina.
I napped yesterday for three hours. It felt like a deeper and greater accomplishment than a lot of things I've done this year, you guys. Three hours.
Leaving New York sometimes is the best. Because there's a lot of noise. And everyone is so close to each other. And, because of sheer proximity and also many other things, possibility just gets deflated. And you wonder what you're doing.
And then you look at a mountain for a couple of days and drive a car and listen to that Robyn Thicke song people have feelings about and you remember that you deeply love your life.
And uncertainty can be a blessing.
I am an optimist.