Earlier this month, Robin Byrd posed the question, when did you know you were a playwright in a blog full of questions.

I will attempt to answer her question.

I was in London (England), and I was looking out at the Thames. In my memory, the sun was shining although that probably was not the reality.

I had just written play. I had built this play moment to moment and gesture by gesture. It was everything I wanted in a play, and it all just felt right somehow.

I also felt drunk even though I hadn’t been to the pub. That was that. I was a playwright. I was f*cked. Yep, totally post-coital sore and tired f*cked.

Yep I was gonna live a life of insanity. I was gonna be low on cash and scrappy. I was gonna spend years working on an idea, an idea, an idea, an idea. I was gonna date poor actors (don’t date actors) and work crappy money jobs (usually alongside actors). I was gonna kick myself for not pursuing screenwriting and sitcom writing and journalism and ad copy. Then when I was done kicking myself, I was gonna beat myself up for not writing plays like everyone else.

Then I got older and a little bit smarter (but not much). But I was still breathing. And I was still writing. Yep, I was still drinking.

 I haven’t been back to London since then.