Which is extra frustrating because for a while I thought it was finished. But it’s important, as a writer, to be flexible with your work and acknowledge its shortcomings–who was it who said “kill your darlings”? Well, to a certain extent, they were right.
I should be working on my novel right now. Here I go. Though I feel like I owe you a blog post, so here’s a little taste of the book:
“We’re actors—we’re the opposite of people!”
–The Player, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
You have played more roles than you can count. You’ve played girls; you’ve played boys. You’ve had lines and you’ve been silent. You’ve recited three-page monologues. You are a vessel for other people’s words: a cocktail shaker in which scripts are mixed with scenery and lights, shaken and poured over the audience. You are a canvas for makeup and costumes, a chess piece moved across the stage by director after director, a head on which to place a wig. You forget, sometimes, that you are flesh and bone. It seems more likely you’re made of balsa wood: a set piece no one will sit on, made light enough to be carried off after its scene, easy to break apart and repurpose for the next show.
The Sensitive, Bookish Type 
Well ….. don’t murder this particular sweetheart. And let me know when and where I can read the rest.
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