Enough

There were two theatre events tonight here in DC: a discussion of the state of the new play at GWU and a public thrashing of Mike Daisey at Woolly Mammoth. I wanted to attend both and ended up attending neither. And doing my best not to beat myself up.

It’s tough to hold down a day job (or raise small children or take care of a sick parent or…you fill in the blank) and be a writer. And even your role as playwright gets divied between the writing, the pitching, the preparation for the readings, attending friends and other fabulous plays, and the schmoozing. The two theatre events tonight that I skipped fall into the latter category. But frankly, I don’t have the energy. Tough week at work. (okay, I’ll brag: my tough week includes hanging out at the Supreme Court for the health care arguments. But it’s a pain in the butt with dodging protestors, the flood of media, the delay in getting audio from the court, and all the rest, I’m pooped. And I look like it.)

There’s only so many hours in the day. And I know the more rested I am, the more creative I am. Tired often equals depression, wasted hours at the keyboard, and too much chocolate.

So I’ve decided to forgive myself for not schmoozing on a Tuesday night. Instead, it’s fuzzy slippers, a bad movie, and some sewing.

How about you?

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