Giving Birth to a Play ...
by Eric Shapiro - for "Writing About Drama" with Professor Wolf - 4-27-2010 ..
Whoever invented writer’s block should be shot. Sometimes, as I sit in my chair in front of my blank computer screen, I curse my genetics for not equipping me with the quantitative reasoning skills needed to pursue a career where creative thought doesn’t matter. Then again, being, say, an accountant would be mind-numbingly boring. From what I hear, even some accountants say so. But then, I tell myself, I would not know the elusive thrill of creative success. It is the feeling of accomplishment that, like a drug, pulls me back to my computer to vomit some half-digested ideas onto the screen and undertake the daunting task of assembling them into something resembling art. Yes, the forces motivating me to hole myself up in my room distilling my grievances and desires into writing are quite pure. Aren’t they? At least, that’s what I tell myself in order to stave off the feelings of hopelessness and impotence that are writer’s block.
Last semester, I had precious little time to scratch my creative itch. An 18-credit course load weighed on my mind like a tumor, siphoning off all my mental energy into essays and exams. As I toiled away into the late hours of the night, oftentimes on assignments that interested me little or not at all, I consoled myself by looking forward to winter break. I told myself that vast stretches of unstructured time would allow my creative juices the opportunity to flow.
I knew that most of my high school friends were off at different times, so I would not spend much time with other human beings. Furthermore, my job, which I could usually count on to occupy idle time over breaks, had fallen through. This, I surmised, would allow me time to devote to creative endeavors that had taken a back seat to my schoolwork. I had written many short stories both in and outside of class and decided, just for a change of pace, to write a play instead. It occurred to me that my parents and grandparents had been taking me to plays since before I developed an attention span and I had never once made a serious attempt to write one.
Things did not work out so well at first. Writer’s block, the most insidious of recurring diseases, struck me when I had all the time in the world to indulge in the aforementioned unproductive, yet personally fulfilling, endeavors. I would awaken every day, sit down at my computer, and stare helplessly at the screen waiting for an idea to impregnate my brain. I had even less success than before, as well as brand new symptoms. First, every time I sat down to write, a wave of sudden exhaustion would wash over me, as if I had been engaged in some strenuous exercise for hours and my body needed to recharge. This was despite the fact that I spent most of my time indoors, obsessing over writing my play or engaging in activities that I hoped would provide inspiration, like listening to music and watching movies.
To make matters worse, I would often come down with headaches. They were never more than a minor throbbing emanating from the back of my skull, but were nevertheless a significant distraction and source of great frustration. As the days went by, I experienced a growing sense of futility at my lack of success.
After over a week of fruitless attempts at writing a play that usually culminated in long naps or watching Cartoon Network with my brother, I got a call from my grandfather, an esteemed professor of marine biology with a passion for teaching his students and lecturing his grandchildren. He informed me that an old colleague of his in Belize had offered him and one other person the opportunity to stay at his lab on the seashore; basically, a free vacation.
The only catch was that I would have to participate in a college course he was teaching on coral reef ecosystems. The idea of spending my precious break in a class was not initially appealing. However, despite my affinity for wasting time, I was fed up with my countless failed attempts at writing a play. The prospect of snorkeling, even for the purposes of fulfilling course requirements, was enough to pique my interest. Perhaps, amidst the exotic undersea life, staggeringly beautiful rainforest and bikini-clad women of Central America, I would find inspiration.
As the days crept by and the upcoming tripped loomed larger and larger in my mind, I began to have serious doubts about going. Hadn’t I comforted myself at the end of the semester with the prospect of endless relaxation, free from the stresses of stifling structure? Hadn’t I craved eating home-cooked meals and associating only with people with whom I was comfortable? Hadn’t I lusted after the familiar as a respite from the constant pressure of academics? How could I possibly focus on my writing when my heart pounded with the inevitable fear of being in a new place? Perhaps I would be better off staying home. Even if I accomplished nothing, at least I would be refreshed for another semester of cramming for tests and pulling all-nighters to finish essays.
It turned out that inspiration would strike before I even stepped onto the plane. As I sat in the airport munching on unsalted pretzels and tuna sandwiches, waiting for my grandfather to return from one of his many journeys to relieve his bladder, a middle-aged woman sat down next to me, gracing me with a friendly smile and a hearty good morning. For me, the morning, which just so happened to follow New Year’s Eve, was anything but good. A pounding headache and nausea vied with ravenous hunger and I was in no mood to be social.
My grandfather, whose medication does not allow him to consume alcohol even if he so desires, struck up a conversation with the woman after his return from the restroom. She possessed a faint Southern accent, a product of her upbringing in Louisiana. Despite a slight limp, her skin glowed a vital red. I imagined blood speeding through her veins like racecars, powering her hyperactive mind with a potent vitality. This was despite the fact that she was morbidly obese and walked with a slight limp. I felt an implacable guilt when I looked at her, the cause of which I would reflect on over the course of my trip.
It turned out that she, like my grandfather, was a college professor. At the end of the semester, she had gone above and beyond the call of duty and roused a slacker student from his bed to take his final exam. I was struck by the absurdity of the scenario she described. How could the professor be devoted enough to hunt down a student like that? A short time later, I received a call from a Skidmore friend. In my frenzy to pack for the trip, I had forgotten to cancel my plans to meet him in New York City. This friend of mine just so happened to be one of the biggest slackers I knew; the type of person who would do something like, say, miss a final exam.
My head still pounding, I chose not to participate in her and my grandfather’s exchange. Every so often she would glance at me and smile. This struck me as extremely annoying. She looked at me like I was some cute, precious life form worthy of fawning over but not of respect. Like a toddler. Her voice, which initially struck me as warm and friendly, became increasingly grating. How could someone be so damn cheery and upbeat waiting in an airport? How could anyone be so carefree while I was sick with self-imposed angst?
“Why so glum, hon?” she asked me, quite suddenly. “Tired,” I responded, hoping she would leave me alone. “Sure you’re not stressed? I know stress when I see it.” The nerve of this woman. I hoped in vain that Grandpa would come to my rescue. She smiled at me good-naturedly. “Things ain’t so bad. You’ll see. Wait until you step out into the tropical air.” I laughed bitterly. Words of wisdom from a college professor in an airport. She reminded me of a doctor I once had who would tell me, as he prepared to draw blood from my tense, quivering arm, that there was nothing to be afraid of. It would be over soon and then I would get a Flintstones sticker and lollipop.
My grandma, who took me to the doctor one day when my mom had to work, loves to tell the story of how I responded to the doctor’s attempts at cheering me up: “You smell terrible, I don’t watch the Flintstones, and your lollipops stink.” I wished I could tell this woman at the airport something equivalent, like, “You’re a nosy, condescending cow and I don’t think the tropical air would help me write a play.” As it would turn out, even if the tropical air didn’t magically breathe inspiration into my lunges, the change of scene would do me some good.
As I sat on the plane, bored and hungover and without an iPod, I decided to attempt writing. I looked over all of the ideas I had typed on my laptop during my busy semester in the hopes that at a later date I would have a chance to develop them. None of them seemed nearly as intriguing then as they had when I had first coughed them up. After staring at my screen blankly for several minutes, as I had for the past couple of months, I threw up my hands and abandoned my drive to write a masterpiece. Instead, just to pass the time, just write something,
Since the college professor’s story was still fresh in my mind, it seemed like as good a topic as any. I came up with a premise: a goodhearted but annoyingly condescending professor knocks on the door of an apathetic student to rouse him for his final exam. I didn’t get farther than writing one scene during the plane ride. I decided, instead, to take a nap. I would continue the play when I got home. At least I had something to work with.
Shaking off the drowsiness of a two-hour nap, Grandpa and I disembarked from the plane and, after a short wait, boarded another, smaller one. As we flew over the transparent veil of the ocean, I listened to my iPod, looking out the window every so often to take in the scenic view. Grandpa, sitting a row in front of me with a family of strangers, jabbered away as usual. Didn’t he ever get bored with absorbing the mundane lives of people he would never see again? He seemed to feed on the stories of others, relying on them to provide his whirring, hungry mind with nourishment.
The students taking the course at Grandpa’s friend’s ecolodge all came from a college in Illinois. I realized quickly that I did not have much in common with them. They were quite intelligent, but not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits. They spent most of their time telling stories about their college partying exploits and gossiping about people I didn’t know, and divulging the intimate details of their love lives. I resolved early on that I would not go out of my way to interact with them unless they approached me.
Our packed schedule, however, was not conducive to avoiding social interaction. Every morning, we would rise at 7:30 and wolf down a quick breakfast that made me look back fondly on the Skidmore D-Hall. Then, we would bathe ourselves in bug spray before setting off to the nearby dock to board a decrepit skiff that seemed be held together by ligaments of scotch tape and bubble gum. Then, it was straight to the coral reefs. The amount of time it took to arrive at our destination varied significantly. I would typically spend a portion of our longer journeys sitting at the front of the boat, squinting in the face of the salty breeze and forcing myself to be social. Then, upon growing bored with my companion’s conversation, I would move below deck and listen to my iPod, read and attempt to write my play. The shelter also offered me a respite from the frigid ocean air, occasionally laced with rain. Just my luck; tropical paradise had decided to experience a rare bout of comparatively bad weather for the duration of my 10-day trip.
When we arrived at the reef, I would emerge from below, put on my snorkeling gear, and dive into the frigid water. After spending a few minutes gawking at the colorful undersea life and struggling with my leaky mask, I would return to the boat, considerably earlier than the rest of the group. Then, in the safety of my cave, I would write. Alas, the burst of inspiration that had come from listening to the college professor at the airport had left my system and I was having as little success as before. My iPod and my books provided me with a respite from creative frustration.
I was so wrapped up in my own world that I hardly noticed my grandpa descending into a sour mood. That is, not until he ventured into my cave and shook me awake from a light snooze. Five days into the trip, I had grown somewhat tired of snorkeling. The organisms that were so dazzling when I first saw them were growing rather commonplace and my leaky mask, combined with bad weather, convinced me to sit out several expeditions. When Grandpa forced me to emerge from my solitude for a “talk,” I expected him to reprimand me for missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. Indeed, that made up a good portion of his lecture. However, he also expressed his disapproval of my self-imposed social isolation. Initially, I was defensive, pointing out various instances of interaction. I also asserted that the other students and I had nothing in common. In fact, I considered their shallowness quite irritating. I probably wouldn’t have followed Grandpa’s advice if he had not ended his sermon with the revealing question: “How do you expect to find inspiration for your play if you seclude yourself from the world?”
At first, I angrily dismissed Grandpa’s words. Not everyone could be so extroverted. Then, over the course of the next couple of days, guilt began to eat away at my insides. I felt sick. Watching Grandpa flitting from one conversation to the next and making himself an active participant in everything made me question my own lifestyle. Here was an old man, with a shriveled bladder and a bad knee, and he seemed to possess more vitality than I did. I, a young specimen in the prime of life, spend my time chewing my creative cud, judging everyone from afar, and using my iPod and my books to hide. How, indeed, could I write a play about people when I was unable, or unwilling, to fully immerse myself in interacting with them? This realization did not hit me at once, of course. It came after much introspection, in bits and pieces. I am, however, convinced that the conversation with my grandfather planted the seeds of revelation in my brain.
That night, I sat in my room with nothing to do. I tried to write, but Grandpa’s snoring and dive-bombing mosquitoes would not allow me to concentrate. I began thinking of the question Grandpa had asked me earlier: How do you expect to find inspiration for your play if you seclude yourself from the world? Again, I felt guilty. Why was I lying in bed at 9:00 PM when I could be upstairs talking to people? Unable to write, sleep, read, or listen to music, I went and joined the other students. My initial perception of them as shallow dissipated somewhat as I got to know them. I was particularly intrigued by the main spectacle of the day (excluding the wildlife), a highly neurotic and inordinately boy-crazy girl staying at our ecolodge. I had observed her flirting with nearly every male human (and, in one case, I think, a parrot) we came across. She had the annoying habit of sharing her problems with anyone willing or unwilling to listen. She, like the parasites found in the stomach of the fish that my grandfather so generously dissected for the class, was dependent on other life forms for her well being.
For the rest of my time in Belize, I pushed myself to interact with my fellow human beings and the outside world as much as possible. I spent very little time writing. However, when I got home, I found that the words flowed a lot easier. The people I got to know on my trip provided me with the creative nutrients necessary to develop characters. The college professor I met in the airport, my grandpa, my slacker friend and several of the students that I met in Belize, particularly the boy-crazy one, were all major sources of inspiration. Writer’s block, which I had blamed on the structure and distraction at school, was symptomatic of a larger problem, namely my tendency to isolate myself from the world. Academics and social pressures at Skidmore may have drained all my mental energy and not allowed me to concentrate on writing a play, but all the mental energy does not mean anything without ideas and it is impossible to come up with ideas in a vacuum.
Whoever invented writer’s block should be shot. Sometimes, as I sit in my chair in front of my blank computer screen, I curse my genetics for not equipping me with the quantitative reasoning skills needed to pursue a career where creative thought doesn’t matter. Then again, being, say, an accountant would be mind-numbingly boring. From what I hear, even some accountants say so. But then, I tell myself, I would not know the elusive thrill of creative success. It is the feeling of accomplishment that, like a drug, pulls me back to my computer to vomit some half-digested ideas onto the screen and undertake the daunting task of assembling them into something resembling art. Yes, the forces motivating me to hole myself up in my room distilling my grievances and desires into writing are quite pure. Aren’t they? At least, that’s what I tell myself in order to stave off the feelings of hopelessness and impotence that are writer’s block.
Last semester, I had precious little time to scratch my creative itch. An 18-credit course load weighed on my mind like a tumor, siphoning off all my mental energy into essays and exams. As I toiled away into the late hours of the night, oftentimes on assignments that interested me little or not at all, I consoled myself by looking forward to winter break. I told myself that vast stretches of unstructured time would allow my creative juices the opportunity to flow.
I knew that most of my high school friends were off at different times, so I would not spend much time with other human beings. Furthermore, my job, which I could usually count on to occupy idle time over breaks, had fallen through. This, I surmised, would allow me time to devote to creative endeavors that had taken a back seat to my schoolwork. I had written many short stories both in and outside of class and decided, just for a change of pace, to write a play instead. It occurred to me that my parents and grandparents had been taking me to plays since before I developed an attention span and I had never once made a serious attempt to write one.
Things did not work out so well at first. Writer’s block, the most insidious of recurring diseases, struck me when I had all the time in the world to indulge in the aforementioned unproductive, yet personally fulfilling, endeavors. I would awaken every day, sit down at my computer, and stare helplessly at the screen waiting for an idea to impregnate my brain. I had even less success than before, as well as brand new symptoms. First, every time I sat down to write, a wave of sudden exhaustion would wash over me, as if I had been engaged in some strenuous exercise for hours and my body needed to recharge. This was despite the fact that I spent most of my time indoors, obsessing over writing my play or engaging in activities that I hoped would provide inspiration, like listening to music and watching movies.
To make matters worse, I would often come down with headaches. They were never more than a minor throbbing emanating from the back of my skull, but were nevertheless a significant distraction and source of great frustration. As the days went by, I experienced a growing sense of futility at my lack of success.
After over a week of fruitless attempts at writing a play that usually culminated in long naps or watching Cartoon Network with my brother, I got a call from my grandfather, an esteemed professor of marine biology with a passion for teaching his students and lecturing his grandchildren. He informed me that an old colleague of his in Belize had offered him and one other person the opportunity to stay at his lab on the seashore; basically, a free vacation.
The only catch was that I would have to participate in a college course he was teaching on coral reef ecosystems. The idea of spending my precious break in a class was not initially appealing. However, despite my affinity for wasting time, I was fed up with my countless failed attempts at writing a play. The prospect of snorkeling, even for the purposes of fulfilling course requirements, was enough to pique my interest. Perhaps, amidst the exotic undersea life, staggeringly beautiful rainforest and bikini-clad women of Central America, I would find inspiration.
As the days crept by and the upcoming tripped loomed larger and larger in my mind, I began to have serious doubts about going. Hadn’t I comforted myself at the end of the semester with the prospect of endless relaxation, free from the stresses of stifling structure? Hadn’t I craved eating home-cooked meals and associating only with people with whom I was comfortable? Hadn’t I lusted after the familiar as a respite from the constant pressure of academics? How could I possibly focus on my writing when my heart pounded with the inevitable fear of being in a new place? Perhaps I would be better off staying home. Even if I accomplished nothing, at least I would be refreshed for another semester of cramming for tests and pulling all-nighters to finish essays.
It turned out that inspiration would strike before I even stepped onto the plane. As I sat in the airport munching on unsalted pretzels and tuna sandwiches, waiting for my grandfather to return from one of his many journeys to relieve his bladder, a middle-aged woman sat down next to me, gracing me with a friendly smile and a hearty good morning. For me, the morning, which just so happened to follow New Year’s Eve, was anything but good. A pounding headache and nausea vied with ravenous hunger and I was in no mood to be social.
My grandfather, whose medication does not allow him to consume alcohol even if he so desires, struck up a conversation with the woman after his return from the restroom. She possessed a faint Southern accent, a product of her upbringing in Louisiana. Despite a slight limp, her skin glowed a vital red. I imagined blood speeding through her veins like racecars, powering her hyperactive mind with a potent vitality. This was despite the fact that she was morbidly obese and walked with a slight limp. I felt an implacable guilt when I looked at her, the cause of which I would reflect on over the course of my trip.
It turned out that she, like my grandfather, was a college professor. At the end of the semester, she had gone above and beyond the call of duty and roused a slacker student from his bed to take his final exam. I was struck by the absurdity of the scenario she described. How could the professor be devoted enough to hunt down a student like that? A short time later, I received a call from a Skidmore friend. In my frenzy to pack for the trip, I had forgotten to cancel my plans to meet him in New York City. This friend of mine just so happened to be one of the biggest slackers I knew; the type of person who would do something like, say, miss a final exam.
My head still pounding, I chose not to participate in her and my grandfather’s exchange. Every so often she would glance at me and smile. This struck me as extremely annoying. She looked at me like I was some cute, precious life form worthy of fawning over but not of respect. Like a toddler. Her voice, which initially struck me as warm and friendly, became increasingly grating. How could someone be so damn cheery and upbeat waiting in an airport? How could anyone be so carefree while I was sick with self-imposed angst?
“Why so glum, hon?” she asked me, quite suddenly. “Tired,” I responded, hoping she would leave me alone. “Sure you’re not stressed? I know stress when I see it.” The nerve of this woman. I hoped in vain that Grandpa would come to my rescue. She smiled at me good-naturedly. “Things ain’t so bad. You’ll see. Wait until you step out into the tropical air.” I laughed bitterly. Words of wisdom from a college professor in an airport. She reminded me of a doctor I once had who would tell me, as he prepared to draw blood from my tense, quivering arm, that there was nothing to be afraid of. It would be over soon and then I would get a Flintstones sticker and lollipop.
My grandma, who took me to the doctor one day when my mom had to work, loves to tell the story of how I responded to the doctor’s attempts at cheering me up: “You smell terrible, I don’t watch the Flintstones, and your lollipops stink.” I wished I could tell this woman at the airport something equivalent, like, “You’re a nosy, condescending cow and I don’t think the tropical air would help me write a play.” As it would turn out, even if the tropical air didn’t magically breathe inspiration into my lunges, the change of scene would do me some good.
As I sat on the plane, bored and hungover and without an iPod, I decided to attempt writing. I looked over all of the ideas I had typed on my laptop during my busy semester in the hopes that at a later date I would have a chance to develop them. None of them seemed nearly as intriguing then as they had when I had first coughed them up. After staring at my screen blankly for several minutes, as I had for the past couple of months, I threw up my hands and abandoned my drive to write a masterpiece. Instead, just to pass the time, just write something,
Since the college professor’s story was still fresh in my mind, it seemed like as good a topic as any. I came up with a premise: a goodhearted but annoyingly condescending professor knocks on the door of an apathetic student to rouse him for his final exam. I didn’t get farther than writing one scene during the plane ride. I decided, instead, to take a nap. I would continue the play when I got home. At least I had something to work with.
Shaking off the drowsiness of a two-hour nap, Grandpa and I disembarked from the plane and, after a short wait, boarded another, smaller one. As we flew over the transparent veil of the ocean, I listened to my iPod, looking out the window every so often to take in the scenic view. Grandpa, sitting a row in front of me with a family of strangers, jabbered away as usual. Didn’t he ever get bored with absorbing the mundane lives of people he would never see again? He seemed to feed on the stories of others, relying on them to provide his whirring, hungry mind with nourishment.
The students taking the course at Grandpa’s friend’s ecolodge all came from a college in Illinois. I realized quickly that I did not have much in common with them. They were quite intelligent, but not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits. They spent most of their time telling stories about their college partying exploits and gossiping about people I didn’t know, and divulging the intimate details of their love lives. I resolved early on that I would not go out of my way to interact with them unless they approached me.
Our packed schedule, however, was not conducive to avoiding social interaction. Every morning, we would rise at 7:30 and wolf down a quick breakfast that made me look back fondly on the Skidmore D-Hall. Then, we would bathe ourselves in bug spray before setting off to the nearby dock to board a decrepit skiff that seemed be held together by ligaments of scotch tape and bubble gum. Then, it was straight to the coral reefs. The amount of time it took to arrive at our destination varied significantly. I would typically spend a portion of our longer journeys sitting at the front of the boat, squinting in the face of the salty breeze and forcing myself to be social. Then, upon growing bored with my companion’s conversation, I would move below deck and listen to my iPod, read and attempt to write my play. The shelter also offered me a respite from the frigid ocean air, occasionally laced with rain. Just my luck; tropical paradise had decided to experience a rare bout of comparatively bad weather for the duration of my 10-day trip.
When we arrived at the reef, I would emerge from below, put on my snorkeling gear, and dive into the frigid water. After spending a few minutes gawking at the colorful undersea life and struggling with my leaky mask, I would return to the boat, considerably earlier than the rest of the group. Then, in the safety of my cave, I would write. Alas, the burst of inspiration that had come from listening to the college professor at the airport had left my system and I was having as little success as before. My iPod and my books provided me with a respite from creative frustration.
I was so wrapped up in my own world that I hardly noticed my grandpa descending into a sour mood. That is, not until he ventured into my cave and shook me awake from a light snooze. Five days into the trip, I had grown somewhat tired of snorkeling. The organisms that were so dazzling when I first saw them were growing rather commonplace and my leaky mask, combined with bad weather, convinced me to sit out several expeditions. When Grandpa forced me to emerge from my solitude for a “talk,” I expected him to reprimand me for missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. Indeed, that made up a good portion of his lecture. However, he also expressed his disapproval of my self-imposed social isolation. Initially, I was defensive, pointing out various instances of interaction. I also asserted that the other students and I had nothing in common. In fact, I considered their shallowness quite irritating. I probably wouldn’t have followed Grandpa’s advice if he had not ended his sermon with the revealing question: “How do you expect to find inspiration for your play if you seclude yourself from the world?”
At first, I angrily dismissed Grandpa’s words. Not everyone could be so extroverted. Then, over the course of the next couple of days, guilt began to eat away at my insides. I felt sick. Watching Grandpa flitting from one conversation to the next and making himself an active participant in everything made me question my own lifestyle. Here was an old man, with a shriveled bladder and a bad knee, and he seemed to possess more vitality than I did. I, a young specimen in the prime of life, spend my time chewing my creative cud, judging everyone from afar, and using my iPod and my books to hide. How, indeed, could I write a play about people when I was unable, or unwilling, to fully immerse myself in interacting with them? This realization did not hit me at once, of course. It came after much introspection, in bits and pieces. I am, however, convinced that the conversation with my grandfather planted the seeds of revelation in my brain.
That night, I sat in my room with nothing to do. I tried to write, but Grandpa’s snoring and dive-bombing mosquitoes would not allow me to concentrate. I began thinking of the question Grandpa had asked me earlier: How do you expect to find inspiration for your play if you seclude yourself from the world? Again, I felt guilty. Why was I lying in bed at 9:00 PM when I could be upstairs talking to people? Unable to write, sleep, read, or listen to music, I went and joined the other students. My initial perception of them as shallow dissipated somewhat as I got to know them. I was particularly intrigued by the main spectacle of the day (excluding the wildlife), a highly neurotic and inordinately boy-crazy girl staying at our ecolodge. I had observed her flirting with nearly every male human (and, in one case, I think, a parrot) we came across. She had the annoying habit of sharing her problems with anyone willing or unwilling to listen. She, like the parasites found in the stomach of the fish that my grandfather so generously dissected for the class, was dependent on other life forms for her well being.
For the rest of my time in Belize, I pushed myself to interact with my fellow human beings and the outside world as much as possible. I spent very little time writing. However, when I got home, I found that the words flowed a lot easier. The people I got to know on my trip provided me with the creative nutrients necessary to develop characters. The college professor I met in the airport, my grandpa, my slacker friend and several of the students that I met in Belize, particularly the boy-crazy one, were all major sources of inspiration. Writer’s block, which I had blamed on the structure and distraction at school, was symptomatic of a larger problem, namely my tendency to isolate myself from the world. Academics and social pressures at Skidmore may have drained all my mental energy and not allowed me to concentrate on writing a play, but all the mental energy does not mean anything without ideas and it is impossible to come up with ideas in a vacuum.