It's one AM and I forgot to move my car, and already, my friends, working my way through a bottle of two-dollar Charley. Dang! No maid, no butler, no live-in boyfriend. And no play that can write itself for me while I sleep.
I've been fighting Workhorse every step of the way. Usually the pattern is: I make myself miserable, then I hide, then I make a fool out of myself, then I write like a fiend, and pull it together in the end. Oh, but can't I skip all the suffering and cut straight to the script?
In past sections of the piece I've had the luxury of time and distance in relation to the material; this time around, it's hitting too close to home. Writing about having 37 cents in your pocket is not the stuff of glamour, nor is it easy to find humor in it. When I delve into the political reasons that an empty coin purse is actually not tragic, then I sound preachy. Sometimes I want to hire someone else to write a funny and political autobiographical piece about me. Perhaps the same cleaning lady that doesn't do my dishes.
My car sits out front like a patient little marshmallow. How could I callously forget the street-cleaning schedules? How could I get drunk on two fingers of cheap wine? And how could there be such a crucial difference between being loved and being spooned?
Oh, but the play. The play's the thing! Writer, write on! Let's just say I'm considering becoming a plumber. When you've gotten the shit out of the way, you can go home and watch the game.