Antipenultimate

Kate stands in the middle of the stage. 

Kate: I’m almost at the end. 

It’s the last three plays before the end of 2018. 

I’m not sure where those three plays are in me. 

I can’t see them partly because I’m already looking ahead to my next projects. The plays aren’t as loud and bright as the upcoming things. 

Kate pauses. 

Kate: That feels like some bullshit. It’s not like this project was the only thing I’ve done this year. I kept up with it while all kinds of other stuff was going on. 

I can’t see them because I’m bored. 

I’ve written 49 of these things and this feels tedious now. All I want is to get something down on the page that approximates a play, post it on my website, tick that weekly box, and be done with it. 

Kate pauses. 

Kate: That’s not entirely it. I’m feeling pressure to perform now that I’m at the end. Better make these last ones count. They should be the culmination of everything I’ve learned throughout the year writing these plays. They should be startling and real and mesmerizing. 

No pressure. That’s what the project was for. To take the preciousness out of writing a play. Write a shitty one this week, no problem, next week might be better. Or three weeks from now. It was built in to the process. But with the end comes wanting it to all have meant something. Every one of the plays meaningful, useful, beautiful. 

Kate pauses. 

Kate: The plan was to get at least a handful of plays I liked out of the year. I probably have. Give or take. 

So the project is a success by that measure. 

Why don’t I feel successful?

Kate pauses and closes her eyes.

Kate: Two to go. 

Curtain.