I don't think writing is as lonely as some commentators and biographers have claimed. In fact, I don't believe it's possible for a writer to produce anything of substance in total isolation. This realization has left me seeking my "first audience" for the new plays. There are so few people I know who read plays. That's not true, I do know people who read plays, but I know hardly anyone who reads not just to see what part they might play, or if it will sell-- but rather to see what it is.

E is a person who knows how to read a play. He emailed me about going to see Dialogues des Carmelites at the Met. The opera was very strange, stark, subtle in the first act then, almost cartoonish in the second. I can't say I liked it much: except it did give me the idea that one might draw parallels between young women who become nuns, and those in the grip of anorexia. Both seek peace and freedom through total enslavement.

All this was still whirling through my mind when I talked to E after the opera, I began talking about how frustrated I was with my life as a struggling playwright. I think I might have spoken a bit boldly, but E seemed to hear and understand. We were in an acting ensemble in high school. I can only hope he doesn't remember anything about me (I was awful then)

This morning R worked on a letter to a master chef he admires. He's looking for a job since he'll be out school shortly. I hope he finds a job that he likes. I think it's stupid that everyone spends so much time working. Perhaps, being a Carmelite nun wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.