Of course, there is no writer born who is not. It's just that some are well-bred enough to try and disguise it.
I am only obsessing about the last play because I can't get on and write the next one. I can hear the new obsession fluffing up his feathers as he prepares to swoop down and seize me for the wild and vertiginous flight. Now that is the true rapture.
I am filled with an almost indecent desire to gather a group of actors round a raw script and see what emerges.
But this is impossible at present. The exigencies of running a theatre - the means whereby I can put my plays on - require us to get other plays in, some of which I must perforce direct. And we must pay the bills, chase sources of revenue, sweet talk new actors, woo new directors, clean the loos, keep track of the keys, put down the trash - all in the name of Art.
Art, you endlessly demanding lover, but oh, what rapture in your arms.
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