Then it gets hard. There's another play stirring inside you, so you circle the wagons and try to protect this fragile voice which has gotten you this far. You shut out all the other voices, the actors who know your characters better than you do, the directors who see things in your work you never imagined, the critics who seem oddly reminiscent of cockroaches in your first New York apartment, endlessly feeding off others, afraid of the light, impossible to get rid of. You're living in a world of elaborate revenge fantasies, consumed by a perversely difficult pursuit that offers virtually no chance of material success. Then it gets hard.
Life slips in as years slip by.
You get married. From a certain odd angle it might appear you have something close to a normal life. You want more. So, hiking up your skirts and whistling at the drunken sailors, you make your way to Hollywood, renowned for its sensitivity. So you plunge into lucrative, soul-deadening projects where you replace other writers only to be replaced by other writers in an endless dance of writers receiving detailed instructions on how to write by people who really would write if they only had time.