“Writers aren’t people,” Kate says tearfully, and I cringe, because this is a play about people in their most basic socially normative states: you want to show me a play about how vicious writers are, how writers are like “feral cats”, as Leonard says? Write me that play. I am interested in the cruelty of writing your own life, the sociopathic separation you need from yourself to mine the gold out of everything around you, the need to create Good Stories at the expense of living a good life—but this is not that play, and few stories about writers are that stories. The trope is Writers Are Different because Writers Carry the Word and the Word is a sacred thing.
The word can be a sacred thing, maybe, but that doesn’t sanctify its bearers.
