I’m at a bar in Florida writing my Irish play – just working on the spine of the story – the monologues of the husband and wife. This was the impetus to write the play, and part of me suspects that the this alone needs to be the play, but I’ll learn a lot at the InViolet retreat in August as my InViolet family has seen several iterations of the beginning of this play. They’ve yet to see a full draft because I’ve yet to write one. (hey, hey, fuck me!) Basically makes it Connor McPherson rip-off instead of the Sheila Callaghan rip off I had planned.
Florida is trouble for me. I hate it and love it. The ocean and beach are amazing here, the people too, some of them. But the others, hurt my soul and make me want to punch them for their ignorance and other bad qualities which I of course see in myself as well.
The beer is very, very cheap.
There’s a Florida hot mom, 20′s, smoking in front of her five year old. Her mom is next to her. She is smoking too. She popped the boy when he did something wrong – didn’t see what . . . no judgment (okay, some judgment).
Time to stop writing and take my boy to the beach . . . Try again tomorrow.