That's the question.
Why continue writing plays.
The grim conclusion that is that there is no reason to continue.
At best or worst, I can't decide which, I'm writing the 21st century equivalent of closet theater.
Except I know there's an audience out there.
Maybe it's a closet theater audience.
Or maybe it isn't.
Or maybe it's time for a change of form.
Or maybe it's time to let it all go and take up yarn bombing.
Or maybe that's the wrong question.
Why write plays.
Maybe the question is where is the theater?
Where is the theater I'm writing for?
It doesn't exist here.
Can't exist here.
Where?
2 comments:
I've been writing plays for more than 20 years. No one cares. But I continue. If I had any sense, I would stop. Haven't made a dime, no one knows my name, never had a play published, never had a play produced at a theater that seated more than 50 people. But I don't have any sense. I continue.
Thanks, Ken.
I'll keep writing too. I'm working on quite a few plays right now.
I have no sense either. That's never stopped me.
But, at the same time, right now: this gorilla is sitting on my chest. I thought I could try to ignore it or figure out why it's there.
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