21: On sharing my writing with a two night stand
Part 4 of a Retrospective of my Twenties
This is Part 4 of a Retrospective of my Twenties. To read the introduction, click here.
In times of artistic doubt, when I question any ounce of talent I may have, I think back to my summer at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center.
I remember the hours spent in the library, working on my new play, typing alongside professional playwrights. The burn in my legs during a mid-morning run through the nature preserve next door, taking a breathy break to marvel at the Connecticut coast. The quiet compliment a professional playwright gave me, pulling me aside during lunch, whispering my play was “excellent”. The 1am rewrites on the floor of my bedroom, tired but giddy with my new words. The cold Hefe Beer, drank slowly in celebration, after my play was presented to applause.
My summer at O’Neill was the happiest of my life. I felt like I clicked into place there. The term writer became less of an aspiration and more of a proud label, I was creating art every day, and I felt really seen by the people around me.
But there is a stain from that summer, one that’s impossible to dodge as I weave through the memories. I had let a guy infiltrate my cocoon of artistic safety. It wasn’t just that I’d spent all summer thinking about him. Or that I was consumed with anxiety over my ignored texts. I had let him become inextricably wound up in my work that summer. I had let him read my writing.
His name was Greg. We matched on Tinder about a week before I left for the O’Neill. I was back home for a few weeks after a difficult semester at college. I had felt alone, abandoned by a friend group, and vulnerable. I didn’t have high expectations for him—I wasn’t sure about his pictures, but we had a mutual friend so I agreed to meet up. But from the moment we met, I was taken by him. He was cocky but in a way I found attractive, charming, and loved art and theater. He was an excellent conversationalist, and I was drawn to him. It didn’t hurt that he was impressed with my upcoming summer at the O’Neill, and kept telling me he couldn’t wait to see my name on a Broadway play.
After three hours at the bar, we migrated over to the East River. He marveled how it felt like a Woody Allen movie, and I was charmed by the fact he felt like we were in a rom com. Maybe this was how relationships started—an unlikely encounter, an undeniable connection, a massive moon glowing over our heads. We made out intensely on a bench, left marks on each other’s necks, and he whispered how badly he wanted to spread my legs open and eat me out right there. It was electrifying.
As he walked me to my apartment, he told me he was bummed I was leaving so soon. But he was glad our colleges were so close to each other. He was implying he wanted to date me—not just this summer, but in the fall. He saw some sort of future with me. After a lifetime of unrequited flings, having a guy state so clearly his intentions was kryptonite to me. In retrospect, it’s clear Greg was crafting a fantasy that I was all too happy to jump into. It was hormones and the magic of a New York City summer night, and we were two liberal arts kids who desperately wanted partners.
The promise of something more hung in the air, and I made time to see him again. We met up in a bar and did a bump of coke off a key with his friends. Back at his apartment, we snuggled for hours and watched Game of Thrones. He told me that holding me in his arms and watching TV was enough, he didn’t need anything more than that, but we still fucked several times (without a condom, because he was out and was too lazy to go out and buy some). He held me, whispering all the places he wanted take me when I was back-- the ballet, an art museum, a yoga class.
It felt too good to be true. I worried this was just an intense hook up, that the second I’d leave for the O’Neill he’d forget about me. “I’m not like those other guys,” he reassured me. “I mean, I’ve hooked up with girls at parties, but I’m not that kind of guy.” Meaning, he did relationships. “Don’t you feel this connection too?” I did. And having a guy admit they did too was enough to make me melt. He was so sure of his feelings for me, so willing to imagine a future. It was all I’d ever wanted. So when he said he’d “wait for me”, the temptation to believe in him was too strong.1
The Eugene O’Neill Theater Center has launched the careers of professional playwrights since the 1960s. The Center houses a myriad of theater conferences over the summer, but it’s most known for the National Playwrights conference. It’s notoriously competitive to get in—six plays are chosen out of thousands to be workshopped and staged over a course of weeks. A spot at the conference is highly coveted, and a sign that this is a writer to watch (Wilson, Wasserstein, Miranda and O’Harris had all gone through the O’Neill). I was there as part of a program for college students that ran concurrently with the Playwrights Conference. I’d been chosen as one of the three playwrights.
I was nervous to go. Even though I had been doing theater for years, claiming the role as Playwright was new for me. I had always chosen other roles—actor, director, stage manager—and none of them quite fit. I was part of the theater community at Vassar, but wasn’t a person to watch, someone people clamored to collaborate with. I had always been a writer, working on my own poems, short stories, and plays. But I had been too afraid to claim the title as my own. Being a Writer felt too important, too mythical, something I couldn’t possibly reach. This summer was the first time I tried the title on, cautiously.
The program was intensive. Five days to write a play, two days to rehearse, culminating with a performance Monday night to the public. Woven in between were classes and workshops, conversations with theater professionals, and watching the professional plays. It was jam packed, and our teachers expected the most from us.
As I started working, rewriting drafts, meeting with my actors, giving notes to my director, something happened. I discovered I was…good. Not just my plays, which were entertaining but needed work. I was good at being a writer. I listened to my actors and directors. I could hear critiques and adjust. When the other playwrights grew anxious in the days we had to write our plays, the time stretched out for me. The quiet mornings writing felt like a gift, and I’d often finish early, taking time to go on a run or walk down to the ocean. Being a writer came…easily to me. It felt like my entire life, I’d been trying to make other theater roles fit, contorting myself and my needs to different shapes. Being a writer slipped on easily, felt like a perfect vintage tee—comforting, soft, perfect.
I was my best self at the O’Neill—being a writer brought out a calm confidence in me, a deep happiness. And my peers noticed that. They wanted to be around me not because my writing was the best, but because I was at my best. I was enjoyable to be around, I could really commit to friendships, and I loved working with everyone there. It is another reason why the O’Neill is so special to me—it is the place where I was seen and loved for who I was. I had spent the past semester thinking I was the problem in my friendships, yet here people were drawn to me, for being exactly who I was meant to be.
In all that joy and friendship and creative blossoming, it’s hard to imagine I would make room for my feelings about a guy. And yet, my mind still floated to Greg when I found a spare moment. We texted periodically when I arrived there. It wasn’t full of love and affection as I’d hoped, but we talked about his Game of Thrones binge, and I threw in mentions of how my summer was going. I still thought that Greg and I had a special connection, and I knew he thought highly of me for just getting into this program. So when my first play at the O’Neill was well received by the audience, when the calm confidence I’d felt as a writer was sinking in, I decided to share my play with him.
I was no stranger to sharing my body with a guy I’d just met. But sharing my writing was new. Greg said he wanted to date me, that we had an undeniable connection. He had told me he was impressed with me as a writer, but still hadn’t read any of my work. It seemed like the logical next step, to let him know me in this way.
I emailed him the play, and a day later his text came in. I saw the massive paragraph, and my heart sank. He wasn’t necessarily—there were several compliments—but had a series of notes and ideas. It was the longest text he’d ever sent to me, and that somehow felt telling. Only in his critique was he willing to communicate so much with me. As I read it, I realized that what I’d wanted from him was to see me through my writing. What he’d wanted was to give feedback, for his voice to be heard in my process. It wasn’t his fault, but I felt that somehow I’d squandered something that should’ve been meaningful. I typed back a response, thanking him for looking at my writing, pretending to take his notes into consideration.
He never answered.
I was upset, but willed myself to focus on the O’Neill. With each week, each new production, my writing grew stronger, my plays weirder, my friendships deeper. I was happy. I’d still fall asleep thinking about Greg, fanaticizing about our dates he’d take me on, but I made a promise not to reach out to him until my program was almost over.
A few weeks later, desperate to know where we stood, I texted him. He didn’t respond, so I anxiously followed up, asking how his summer was going. He curtly replied, “I’m good! You?” I felt horrible. What had gone wrong? I texted again, suggesting vague plans. I was glued to my phone, constantly checking it between rehearsals or classes, my heart sinking when I didn’t get a reply. What had I done? I couldn’t make sense of his actions, the turn so swift and sudden.
I asked my friends for advice, they bemoaned the unknown mindset of a 21 year old boy. They urged me to forget him, but I couldn’t. Not when he’d promised me so much. Not when he’d occupied my mind for so many weeks. Not when I’d let him read my writing, given him a front row look at something I was so proud of. I’d liked guys before and had things fall apart, but this one felt worse, more personal, more devastating. Even though that last week should’ve felt like a victory lap, I was weighed down. What I felt most prominently—more than the sadness and guilt—was shame. Shame that I couldn’t push aside a guy to enjoy this last week. Shame that I had trusted the words of someone I knew I shouldn’t have. Shame that I had let a guy take away what could’ve been a perfect summer. I was leaving with incredible memories, plays I was eager to keep working on, and meaningful friendships. But I also knew that his turn on me was now intertwined with that summer.2
In the weeks that followed, in the near constant mental post-mortem I subjected myself to, I identified my fatal mistake. I couldn’t control falling for a guy—it was near automatic, my daydreams unfolding before I could recognize they were happening. But I could control sharing my writing. Dating is a careful dance of letting enough walls down to be intimate, while keeping enough up to protect yourself. From that point forward, my writing became the wall I refused to let down. I could admit my feelings for a guy, share my past traumas, experience tender physical intimacy. But sharing my writing was the last holdout. That was what I clung onto to protect myself.
And I kept true to that rule. I never sent my writing to a guy I was involved with again. Even once I started dating Ross, sharing my writing was the last wall—it came after I love you, after meeting my parents, only once I felt truly secure and safe.
For years I have looked back on this summer as a cautionary tale: the time I let my obsession with a guy corrupt my perfect summer. It’s been a thudding reminder of my failure to put up walls, to push my obsession with guys aside. If only I hadn’t let him in, if only I hadn’t trusted him, I could’ve been truly happy.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Two months ago, I started publishing these essays on my Twenties. I thought the series would help me reframe turning 30—instead of being marred with anxieties over what I haven’t accomplished, I could revel in how I’ve grown. I could look back on my past mistakes and see maturity, share funny tidbits. It would be a victory lap.
Then I started writing. I went back into stories I’d told myself for so long—about being ghosted, about a friend breakup. But as I dug deeper, I realized that these stories didn’t entirely belong in the past. That even though I had matured, many of the habits I was struggling with, are still with me. I was presenting these lessons like triumphs, but that wasn’t wholly accurate. Yes I am more mature. But I am still plagued by many of the negative thought patterns I once had. It was unsettling.
Whether that realization started it, I can’t say, but soon after writing these essays, I fell into a depressive episode. Actually, depressive flattens it--it was more like sudden periods of deep seated sadness, heightened anxiety, and an anger that coursed through my body. It was unlike anything I’d experienced in years. Each day was a battle, I could feel myself slipping away. I’d blow up at Ross and stay awake at night, watching him sleep. I remembered how much I loved him, how deep our connection was when we first met. Yet in my rages I couldn’t feel it, I was turning him into an enemy. Who had I become? Rationality was a memory I had to cling onto—I couldn’t feel it in the moment. The change was abrupt and scary. The only thing that made me feel better was my three hour work outs, physical exhaustion finally quieting my mind.
I tried to get back into my essays, eager to distract myself. But the opposite occurred. Every time I tried to write, I was hit with such sadness, with the preemptive notion that whatever past success of my Twenties wouldn’t be true. I didn’t have it in me to unearth another vulnerable story, to put myself on display. It was upsetting. These essays were supposed to make me feel good about myself. But I couldn’t push through it. I had to take a break.
I talked to my therapist and upped my Zoloft. I turned my attention to my scripts, finding a rare sense of solace in my dramatic works, a joy in tinkering with imaginary problems. I journaled. I spent time thinking about what might have spurred this, and what I might need to adjust in my life. Our foster dog got adopted. And slowly, and then somehow all at once, I came back to myself.
This is my first essay since my depressive episode interruption. And as I revisited this summer with Greg, of him ruining my “artistic bliss”, I realized that I may have gotten the story wrong. I had imagined my essays as a victory lap, but then I fell into a sadness—an interruption—that demanded a reassessment. My summer at the O’Neill had seemed like an artistic victory lap, interrupted by Greg. In both these situations, my expectation of untarnished creativity had been skewered by something else.
I think many creatives share my dream for a period of uninterrupted creation, the ability to work without the distractions of the world—dogs barking, people calling, a bodily need to pee or shit or eat. The O’Neill, in my memory, had been that—a space that was sacred, perfect. A space that I had ruined by letting Greg in. It was my fault, I couldn’t control my emotions, I had made the fatal mistake of letting him in. But that’s not true. It wasn’t my fault I had a depressive episode this year. I couldn’t control that. And I couldn’t steel my mind away from Greg that summer. And here’s the truth—even if Greg hadn’t been there, my emotions might have faltered, my anxiety and depression might have slipped in. That’s a reality of my life.
The lesson lies not in blaming myself for letting an interruption in, but in how I handle it. I kept writing at the O’Neill. I wasn’t as present those last days of the program, but I finished my last play. I soaked in time with my playwrighting teacher. Earlier this year, I took time to recalibrate what I needed. I focused on trying to feel better. I didn’t force myself to write what made me feel worse—I switched my focus to something different. I gave myself compassion. And I found a way to be flexible.
And isn’t that the plight of an artist—or at least of a professional one—of finding a way to work through life challenges? There will always be interruptions—emotional, physical, mental, intellectual. And maybe the skill is in how we manage that, in learning to take a break, or recalibrate, or write something new, or not write anything
For so long, I thought the lesson of my summer at the O’Neill was how easily I let men hijack my happiness. But it was really a lesson in making art. There will always be interruptions. I can’t fault myself for that. But I can control how I respond. I can take a break. I can wallow in my emotions. I can keep writing. My summer at the O’Neill isn’t a story about shame—it’s about resilience. Despite it all, I found a way through.
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If you wanna catch up on the other parts, you can check out 27, 20, and 23
I have his words in quotes, because I wrote down what he told me at the time. It was both a way to quell my anxiety, and proof of what he had promised. I was giving into the fantasy, but my rational mind knew I should keep the receipts.
A few years later, when I learned the term “Love Bombing”--the act of overpowering a partner with affection and attention as a means of control—Greg’s actions finally made sense. It had nothing to do with me, it was a tactic he’d deployed, whether it was a conscious decision or not. But without that vocabulary, I took his intense flip/flop as evidence that it was my fault.