My piece is deceptively simple, in that it’s not simple at all. There are about half a million sound cues and a bunch of props and by end of the piece, the stage is littered with boxes and stuffed animals and wrapping paper and trash.
But Gabe Marin is a genius, Mark Routhier did an awesome job directing, the crew pulled off the techy stuff flawlessly, and the Best Of book called the play both “funny and touching,” which means it must be true, because it’s in print.
Afterwards, they did a talkback with a few of us playwrights. Every time I do a talkback, I come up with a completely different answer to the question, “Why did you first decide to write plays?”
At least no one asked about my influences; I inevitably just toss out the names of whoever’s plays I read last.
I should memorize a list of people that would make me sound well-read, grounded in the classics but still hip, and then toss in a made-up foreign-sounding name so I sound smart: “Oh, you know, Beckett, Albee, Fornes, the Neo-Futurists, Sheila Callaghan, Naomi Iizuka and Milos Verbanivec.”