I could never dive, by which I mean literally, and I still can’t.
If I had a t-shirt that said “ask me about that summer when I went to diving class a whole diving class to get over this humiliating un-dive-ability and it was a total disaster” it might help in situations near pools or even beaches, I mean, I know people who will dive head first into waves, WAVES, and they’re like, come on, what’s your prob, and I’m like –
well, see, that’s when I could point to the shirt.
Nobody else went to diving class -- well I guess the rest of the class did, it was a class, but I
think for most of them it was to make their diving BETTER. All the diving they’d done prior to, I guess, had been some sort of innate – a gift, I guess, an innate gift. A spring, then an arc, then their skinny little bods hit the water, but I think the operative point here lies above, it’s HEAD FIRST, I stood on that diving board at Jordan Junior High School (Jordan Middle School by the time I went there and hit that pool...
On Monday, I rolled into Iowa City, the place where my identity as a writer crystallized. I wrote so much here. 6 plays, tons of shorts. I made so many dear friends here and I lost one of those friends last November to ovarian cancer. When I got here, I took a night walk along the Iowa River and wept, overwhelmed by so many years passing, remembering back to a time when I was so very hopeful.
One of the things that I was reminded of on returning to this place was just how often I took matters into my own hands. I produced. I was produced. But I was active and feisty and engaged in a way that, as we all know, is harder to do when you leave the bubble of graduate school. I’ve had access and attention from theatres and play development companies. Those experiences have been invaluable but as playwrights, once your play has had its moment in the sun, you return to looking for a new home. That search can be harrowing at times.