I'm not satisfied with how this correspondence is working out. It feels contrived and less than interesting. I think all this time I have been afraid of writing what's actually going on with me; and that's why it has become increasingly hard to write every week. I don't think I can keep these characters alive all the time. But perhaps this is the trick of writing: there are hurdles to overcome and discoveries on the other side? I still feel like I am avoiding something deeper by turning to this Los Angeles writer and this searching and underchallenged art curator in London.
It is the experiences around LA and with other theatrical interactions I would like to write about most. The randomness that occurs and the brilliant thoughts that I voice aloud in my car that never make it anywhere in print, but only fly right out the crack in my window.
Oh, I don't know what to make of this place of published content that is so easily leaked out of my fingers. We shall see what becomes of it.
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