When I start to want something, I start to see it everywhere, note its qualities. First it was boys and whether or not they were wearing wedding rings, then it was cars and whether or not they had leather interiors. Now that I have hit the jackpot in both Boy and Car, I WOULD PLEASE LIKE A HOUSE. And so I leer at them everywhere I go. I note their qualities. Whether or not there is a porch or front yard, whether there is garage space, what its down payment might be, if I could ever in a million years afford it, its window panes, its columns, its french doors and its trees. I dream about its kitchen. Does it have an island for cooking? IS THERE A FARMER’S SINK? IS THERE A WALK IN CLOSET THAT YOU CAN WALK INTO? IS IT SINGLE? WILL IT EVER BE MINE?
Guess what you guys, I LIVE BY THE BEACH TECHNICALLY! (Truth.) And so today, my friend and I went and stood on it.
I call this picture: QUICK TAKE A PICTURE OF ME LOOKING SUPER RELAXED ON THE BEACH AND LAUGHING AT HOW SILLY IT ALL IS WHILE MEANWHILE IN THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD IS EXPLODING WITH ALL OF THE OTHER THINGS I’M SUPPOSED TO BE DOING!
I just want to go on record and say that it’s only really been a few weeks since I finally fully got what a Meme is. This is a meme:
A meme is a picture with words on it that is found on the internet that makes people laugh or maybe just makes them really angry at the human who made it, because like why, but also fine, you’re right that’s just a little bit funny. Now I can move on to other things I pretend to understand, like fracking, bitcoins, post modern art, my computer, other planets, life on other planets, and the reproductive system!
Morrison’s big sister Kate is in town. I like her so very much, especially because they are kind of exactly the same person. I mean it’s just a theory and I have no actual idea where it comes from except of course maybe FROM THIS MARVELOUS PICTURE.
SAME DRINK / SAME MOOD / SAME FACE
I’ve been trying this app called The Skimm and I can’t tell if it’s brilliant or giving me a brain tumor. It’s basically Local and World news for the Busy and also Social Media Savy Woman? Every morning, you click, and they give you a 2-3 minute scroll worth of what’s happening, with a solid sprinkle of pop culture and memes, tucked between bombings and laws. I have to say, there is something kind of soothing about it, going through the day knowing that I’ve Skimmed, that I have a sense of all that is right and wrong with the world. It certainly saves me time, as it delivers information to me and I don’t have to seek it out. But why do I feel like I am a robot and every morning pertinent information is uploaded into my brain? IS IT BECAUSE I AM IN FACT A ROBOT, AND EVERY MORNING, PERTINENT INFO IS UPLOADED INTO MY BRAIN?
LIFE GAVE BEYONCE LEMONS, AND SO SHE MADE LEMONADE.
I AM THE FIRST PERSON TO GET THIS HIDDEN SECRET MEANING RIGHT?
OKAY COOL I THOUGHT SO TOO.
I studied and worked on a lot of Marsha Norman plays in undergrad (Getting Out / Night, Mother). One night in grad school, I ended up hiding in a corner of her massive west village loft apartment with some other writers from the program, staring in awe at her shelves and shelves of floor to ceiling books complete with sliding ladder, watching Edward Albee eat shrimp, imagining what it might be like to write a play that then bought you a whole apartment. We have never spoken I don’t think, but I’ve called her my friend in my head, in that way that you do if you’ve been in someone’s house but never called each other by each other’s Names. Today, she’s written a PHENOMENAL ESSAY ON HOW / WHY TO WRITE PLAYS, for Stage and Candor. Excerpt from my brilliant friend here:
If you know a story about a brave human in big trouble, write that. Write how the trouble started, what the person did, and how it turned out. Little troubles, for example, troubles that will solve themselves just by the person growing up, you don’t need to waste your time on those. Write about greed, revenge, rage, betrayal, guilt, adultery, and murder. When writing about softer troubles such as injustice, loss, humiliation, incapacity, aging, sadness and being misunderstood, just be sure to attach them to one of the more active troubles. Attach betrayal to loss and you have a play. Attach adultery to aging and you have a play. And let fear drive the whole thing. An aging woman is afraid her husband is having an affair, so she plots to kill him. Just kidding, but you see what I mean. We know we would watch that story, as stupid as it is in sentence form. Then you just add your great dialogue and your fabulous scenes and you’re done. Haha.
Seriously, what we are doing when we write for the stage is telling stories people need to see. We do it for the same reason we put up stop signs, because it is important, for some reason, for people to stop at this place and look around. Our place at the playwrights’ table is determined by how many people remember the stories we tell, and people remember the stories they feel they will need someday. Just like life. Urgency is the key to a good story, fear is the force that keeps it moving. The good news is that humans are so hungry for stories that our brains invent them even when we are asleep. So they need us. It is a great privilege to be a storyteller. And if it hurts, it hurts. We can take it.
We wanted to go for Valentine’s Day. Then Bey had to go and drop Formation, after which a special lyric boosted the franchise’s business by THIRTY THREE PERCENT NATION WIDE. And so on V day, there was a five hour wait. So we went last night. There are still cheddar biscuits. There are wine glasses with lobsters on them. There is lobster. There is dim, hazy light, there are starter salads. There is attentive service, there is a free ice cream sundae when they ask you and so you name your special occasion. HENCE BEYONCE, YOU ARE RIGHT, THERE IS NO BETTER PLACE FOR ROMANCE.
Two years ago today, I went with this man to see a play. During the play, I looked over at his dangerously long femur extending for years beyond even mine, and longed for our femurs to to be friends. An hour later we happened upon an 80s cover band and danced our femurs off. An hour later we kissed in a parking lot, his head a remarkable distance above my own. Two years later he’s still mine. Six months from now we wed. Fifty years from now our femurs turn to mush and so we move around the grocery store in mechanical scooters, holding hands, taking up too much of the aisle.
I bid a bittersweet farewell to the Switched at Birth writers, cast and crew last night. After 103 FREAKING EPISODES, it is being sent off to that great big vault of excellent shows in the sky, where shows go to take naps and reminisce and, as my theory of heaven goes, dine on waffle sundaes and unlimited peel and eat shrimp. Practically everyone who’s ever worked on the show turned out to celebrate what we made. I’m still new to TV, but I get the sense that it’s rare to work on a show with so much love and camaraderie. The fact that it gave a lot of people their first chance at their dream I think lodged it in a special place in a whole lot of hearts. Lizzy and Paul gave lovely speeches about how surely we’ll all work together again, and so it’s not really the end. By which I of course mean, of Gils Marini’s abs.
IT WILL NEVER BE THE END.