to live life as a writer is a very lucky thing.
The struggle to be considered a grown-up begins, I believe, shortly after birth.
Our lives are not totally random. We make commitments, we cause things to happen.
Work is a way of shutting out ambiguous sentiment.
Sometimes I want to clean up my desk and go out and say, respect me, I'm a respectable grown-up, and other times I just want to jump into a paper bag and shake and bake myself to death.
No matter how successful I become as a playwright, my mother would be thrilled to hear me tell her that I'd just lost twenty pounds, gotten married and become a lawyer.