Most of the time, when I read some play, from some playwright who is supposed to be a genius, I get bored. I sense the large themes, but am too lazy, dense or self-involved to grasp what is there. If
I don’t really have much to write about this month. Acting is going fine. Life as a student, frankly, is easy. I have another few months at East 15 whereupon I’ll graduate with my MFA, and, hypothetically, a whole lot
I told Christine—who runs this blog—that my next post, finally, will not be some personal whine lamenting the choices I have made… (Though, I albeit hope these meanderings are at least mildly entertaining). “My next post will be about acting!”
Almost exactly one year ago I left America for England so I could be an actor. Though in my past rather petulant posts I’ve hinted what I left, I have not been explicit. Yes, a good job, friends, family, stability,
I’m not sure who reads this. I suppose it doesn’t matter. But if my few posts are tracked or gauged for tone, skepticism, doubt and probably a wee bit of pain can likely be gleaned. I feel like people who
I don’t consider myself an artist. I would have to have created something of genuine value first—something beyond the few shows and stories of which I’ve dabbled. I am also skeptical that “artist” is a title that will ever fit.