If there’s been a particularly bitter tone that’s crept onto these pages of late, my apologies. My heart has remained broken for at least sixty-six different reasons (and, yes, it’s at least sixty-six; they’ve all been logged down privately, along with prospective ways out) over the past couple of weeks, and I’ve tried to rebound from this by submerging myself into work, which to my mind includes this place. Certainly the insomnia helps. But it hasn’t completely extinguished a tone of nastiness that really doesn’t serve anybody. It doesn’t help my writing, much less the research I’m trying to do right now for the next play. (After all, not that I’m trying to draw any comparisons here, we all know what happened to John Fowles.)

So I’ve decided to withdraw from these pages for a while. It’s more important for me to find solid ground and a certain faith in humankind again than to kvetch about picayune shit like Stanley Crouch’s latest piece of irrational detritus. In the meantime, the David Mitchell interview I posted a few days ago should keep you folks busy. But do visit the smart and sturdy souls on the left.

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Our voicemail is clogged with the exciting entreaties of actors. We’re catching up on email (sort of). And we’re trying to meet three deadlines this weekend. So rather than remain terse and uninteresting, we direct you to the usual crowd.

I’m looking into my magic mirror and I see Maud, I see Carrie, I see Rake and Mark. I see Nathalie. I see Sarah and Jessa. I see Lizzie and Jimmy. I see…

(Miss Nancy, you heartless bitch! I’ve been waiting for you to call my name for months!)

SOUND: .357 fired into plasma tube by youngster with exotic name.

Oh, just check out everyone on the left. They’re all good.

Be back on Monday.

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