I wrote this little angry comedy last month. Not typical for someone who has been consumed by the rage of a woman done wrong for over four years. And yet, there it is. In the space of two weeks, I wrote a 60-page script almost up to the deadline.
It, too, was spurred by rage, but this time of the “I’ll show them” variety. And, you know what? I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, despite the negative inspiration. For rather than slogging through forced language and style and all of the other rules I set for myself as a playwright, I simply let the grieving old woman inside me loose. I fell in love writing the male character. I wrote the son I never bore, and wish I had. And, I wrote a female character to the voice in my head of a tremendous actress I know.
In reflection, I think what I did was successfully open up the myopic vision I had of myself as a playwright and may have found my voice.