I just watched Wrestling with Angels, a documentary about American playwright Tony Kushner
Usually playwrights leave me inspired. I saw Arthur Miller speak and was so in awe that I cried all the way home.
And I saw Tony Kushner in person at a conference and left the auditorium feeling so much pride about working in the arts that I practically floated.
Tonight, however, the documentary made me feel like a fraud.
I’ve just started calling myself a writer out loud, and only on occasion. But who am I kidding? I’m not a writer.
How can you call blogging by the same name as the art of creating beautifully worded, powerful, politically charged masterpieces?
Even the word blogger is ugly, while playwright makes me think of the building of majestic ships and Shakespeare.
Tony Kushner writes by hand, with lovely gold pens he keeps in a case. I tap out short paragraphs on a netbook with a Tinkerbell sticker.
Tony Kushner is inspired by Afghanistan, the AIDS epidemic, the holocaust. I’m inspired by the outfit the weather girl was wearing this morning and old episodes of Friends.
Tony Kushner is a writer. I’m just pretending.