Taking a dark pleasure in the ominous.
The days are getting shorter.
October. The harvest is in, the daylight is shrinking, it’s getting colder, and the spooks are preparing to roam the earth. If I were taller, I’d buy a long black cloak and stalk the Lower East Side at twilight, whipping around corners and scaring the children. (Hey, there’s a Quidditch team that plays delusionary matches in the East River Park on the weekends. I could referee.)
As energizing as the autumn can be, especially with the new theater season fully launched, I am inclined toward some Victorian malingering this year. I have some new work brewing in the back of my brain, and it’s making me weird. When I’m not taking those long, brooding walks in my cloak, I want to be draped limply across a velvet chaise lounge, perhaps toying with the locket at my breast in a melancholy, Steampunkish way. (I don’t have a chaise, or a locket. My home is actually quite ridiculously bright and cheerful. But in my mind, people, in my mind.)
Somewhere in there, in my cerebral cortex or buried deep in my entrails, is a New Play. It’s not ready yet. It doesn’t have a form. It’s just out of sight and out of reach. But it nags. And this state of things seems quite perfect for the season. What would the costume for a half-baked idea look like?
Usually, when I have a half-baked idea, I’m bursting with energy. This time I’m on a slow simmer. It’s grimmer, and grittier, and has that horror-movie sense of long hallways with doors one should not open. But you know you will.
You know you will.