You are an attention whore.
Even when I have explained to you that I simply cannot focus every waking moment on a scene, on a one act, on a review, on the latest show, on the coolest producing trends--and I'm firm about this--you still send me text messages at 3am to let me know that "hey… just wanted to say that I have a really great idea for a play and you're just wasting these characters' lives if you don't START IT RIGHT NOW".
Number one: that's rude. I was spending time with Bed and he already pesters me about never coming to visit.
Number two: Why Theater? Why can't you just leave me alone?
We've both already admitted that there is chemistry between us. It's true that I get excited about concise stage directions on a page and the beautiful way your lights go down before a show. But you have to stop sashaying around my mind. I curse those spectacular audience reactions that keep pulling me back to you!
But you know what? You'll always win. Don't tell Novel because I promised her the entire year. We'll have to see each other on the side and if Novel walks in on us during a passionate writing session we'll just pretend that you're a dialogue exercise.
This is not a love letter to you Theater; this is the farthest thing from it. This is a warning. We're deadly for each other. You strangle all the oxygen from my other pieces. You draw my pen away from revisions and lure me into the front row of the latest opening. How do you expect me to get anything else done if you continually wrap your costumed fingers around my brain? But you don't care do you? You still drag me through your curtains and out onto the stage. Where I fall into a trance from the smell of cedar ash left behind by the set designer, the sound of the creaking from the black matted floor.
I guess that's why deep down I know I love you. Because as much as I'm consumed by the initial frustration of your persistent requests to write for the stage when I fall back into your arms it feels like a full house on opening night.