Culture of Denial

What's life like for an "emerging playwright" on a warm Saturday night in NYC? Cocaine parties in the VIP rooms of discotheques? Building barricades to stem the tide of over-aggressive lady suitors?

Or perhaps holing myself up in my apartment trying to write my next play.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, why don't I eat worms?

"Butcherhouse" isn't out yet, I don't know what kind of life it'll find in the world, but I'd like to have my next play in some shape to show people while they're still interested in -- or curious about -- my work. Interest is such a tenuous thing...

"Chinadoll Overdrive" is a concept I've kicked around for years now. I just need to write it out of my system. It's complicated in unique ways. It feels good to see it solidify into something after being this loose, liquid idea in my head for the past 5 years. It's evolved and it's evolving. It's become what I need to write right now.

There's no external pressure to finish it, which is precisely why I need to finish it now. I've got time to make it what I want it to be. Time never seems to be on my side. I've always been afraid that I'm not a fast enough writer. I really should have a lot more to show for the past 10 years than I do. But I'm trying to catch up. I've made some good progress this year. I just have to keep it going. Which means leading a pretty uninteresting personal life. Sorry!