I am six days away from being elevated into the pantheon of play writers. My short play will be performed locally by Carl and Virginia, this century's Lunt and Fontaine. Their chemistry, timing, and perceptive interpretation of my text. is exquisite.
The audience will leave gasping. Critics will rave. Parties will follow. Much air kissing and gentle hugging. Finally I will get the respect I deserve.
I would not be surprised if the library auditorium burnt to cinders from the heat generated on that stage. Carl's simmering Brando clashes with Virginia's disdainful Vivian Leigh.
Six more days. In the meantime I will get my laundry done. And wait for greatness.
The play is called Errant Socks. A commentary on then crumbling values all around us.
This is why I write.
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