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A monologue from the play by Sam Bobrick
ERIN (early thirties)
Erin reprimands her husband, a playwright, for overreaching in his choice of professions.
George, you’re a big boy. For whatever reason, the choice to write whatever the hell you’re writing was obviously yours. Frankly I have no sympathy for writers who find themselves in these kinds of jams,
where they lose focus of what they started out to do and then go into a panic mode like you’re doing now. Life is too short for someone as exquisitely uncomplicated as myself to put up with this chaotic and desperate behavior
and I don’t know how much longer I can or will. It’s selfish and it’s unfair. I don’t want to upset you any more than you are but it’s very possible playwriting isn’t for you.
Your talent may not be as lofty as your ambition and once again you’re over reaching. Maybe it’s time to think about other areas that are not as demanding as the theatre, like television for instance.
That could solve everything. The expectations in that field are far less and the pay checks are far more. It’s something to really consider. Anyway, I’m off to the gym.
With any luck, when I get back, you’ll have pulled yourself together and given what I just said some serious thought. Goodbye for now, George. I wish I could be more encouraging than honest.
It’s sometimes very confusing which is the more valued quality. Sometimes I really worry about you, even if it seems I don’t.
