I had no clue I wanted to be a writer when all of a sudden I wrote a play. I wrote it very quickly.
That play, which you will NEVER read, is called Telephone. It’s a Sarah Jones rip-off of juxtaposed monologues. I was nineteen and thought it was incredible. My father thought it was “juvenile but promising.” Sarah Jones, if you’re reading this, I remain a loyal fan but I have stopped ripping you off. Thank you for helping me figure out that I’m a playwright.
Do you remember the first time you did your favorite thing? I’d love to hear about it.
Anyway, my more recent plays, which you may certainly read, are less juvenile and more promising. They even fulfill their some of their promises. And yours! Promises you didn’t know you made.
I’m actually being serious, I think there is something inside me and my plays that’s also in you. It’s invisible and mighty and longing to be articulated. My plays are an attempt at actualizing that thing. I want you to watch and go, [gasp!] yes, that’s it! That bizarre and gorgeous and hideous thing is a human being and I am that too!
I also teach, consult, and write for screens, God help me.
Last but not least, I think it’s just fine to end a sentence with a preposition.