My son, Henry, likes to open and close things. Drawers, doors, cabinets – anything with a hinge will do. The other day he peered out behind a mostly closed door. He mischievously looked up at my wife and I. With a great grin he said, “Bye!” and slammed the door shut.
People with children often try to explain to people without them what parenting is like, but it’s basically impossible. It’s not that there’s any one thing about it that is inexplicable, but the enormity of the change is resistant to metaphor. You want to know what having kids is like? It’s like having kids.
There was a time, not too many years ago, when playwriting was the primary focus of my life. If I were to order and name my priorities, it would have looked something like this: 1) Playwright 2) Friend 3) Buddhist 4) Worker/Wage Earner. Now it would look something like this: 1) Father 2) Worker 3) Husband 4) Playwright. Friend and Buddhist are now somewhere back there, but I am usually too tired to get that far down the list.
To be fair, sometimes 2 and 3 change places. I am much happier then, as is my wife. But as the man who brings in almost all the money for the family right now, it is more often the order above. At the moment, I have to bring money in or my family don’t eat. That sets your priorities pretty fast.
I don’t expect anyone to cry for me because of the way my life has changed. That I have to work to support my family makes me no different from millions of other people. But more importantly, no one should cry for me because I am so much happier now. I have a kick-ass wife, who loves me with both ferocity and care. And I have a son who is like a klieg light into my dark little soul every day, making me weepy with gratitude for his very existence and what he brings to mine.
But the losses are real, too. No matter that I put it number 4, I am a playwright down to my marrow. I simply cannot conceive of life without it. Yet my life now makes it very difficult to write. It makes it almost impossible to see anything (consider this a blanket apology to all my friends whose shows and readings I’ve missed). I feel further outside the theatrical world than I have in years, and when I finally do finish my new play I fear that there will be no one there to hear it.
More than that, I wonder what kind of writer I am now. My two best plays were written when I was young and miserable. I am not young now, nor am I miserable (though I have my moments). Can I write as well from this new place? Or has the wellspring of my talent gone with my miserable youth?
On my good days, I don’t doubt. I love my new play, and have gotten wonderful response to it thus far. But on bad days I wonder.
There is, of course, no turning back. And I wouldn’t even if I could. But I still wonder -What doors have opened for me now that others have closed?
