Early this morning I had a nightmare/anxiety dream that I had gotten one of my plays selected for the New York Fringe Festival—and it was about The Real Housewives of New Jersey, no less. We were at opening night and I realized, to my horror, that I hadn’t ever given the actors full drafts of the scripts; they only had unfinished scripts. I had no time to print out enough copies for them to take on-stage, so I had to call off the show.
I’m sure that this is a clear metaphor for my fears about my creativity, so psychoanalyze away. But also, someone please shoot me in the face if I ever try to present a play on the Real Housewives. I know that my plays use pop-culture references like Twitter and Leonard Nimoy, but that’s ridiculous.