(Salomé rehearsal with T. Ryder Smith and Olwen Fouéré)

I wrote a new play (well almost), and it’s getting a workshop at the Kennedy Center. This is probably the biggest deal of my life (sorry Rafael), and I couldn’t more excited. I am dealing with this excitement by over-eating. Yes.

Met with the director yesterday, and he told me to let go of the play inside my head; I’m still getting over that remark. Or, rather still unravelling the whole thing. I can remember a conversation we had about the play a month ago

“I want us to make the play in the room, so if anyone has a good idea, they can just come right out and say it.”

“We want ideas, but not narrative. After all, it’s your play.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Weird thing to say, but I get where I was going. It’s not my story is what I meant to say. Sure, I  wrote it (most of it), but I feel like this story could have written by anyone with parents, grandparents that were in the Holocaust—and passed on that struggle/pain to their kids/grandkids.

The actors that I have to work on this show are getting paid. That’s right. That’s a first for me. Sure, I’ve done gigs and actors I’ve worked with have gotten paid, but paid for a workshop? Nope. This is a first. And the actors are people I have admired on stage/screen and never would have dreamed I would be in a room with them working on something I wrote.

I’m fucking giddy. Thank you, Gregg Henry.