Suspension of disbelief

He told us to call him Pete, as A.R. was only his professional name. I smiled from my seat in the audience, thrilled that I was actually in the same room as the playwright whose work left me in tears the previous summer.

The subject turned to "Love Letters," and I inched forward in my seat, anxious to hear his thoughts on the piece.

He chuckled to himself as he seemed to recall a memory.

"I'd finally purchased a computer and was trying to figure out how to use the word processor program," he said slowly. "I started typing out a letter, just to get used to the program, the keyboard. One led to another and I realized that I was starting a dialogue between two characters. I continued it and made it into a play. And that play was 'Love Letters.'"

My jaw dropped slightly, much as I tried not to let it.

"So yes. I wrote the play because I was getting used to working with a computer."

I chuckled with the rest of the group, but remained amazed. The play that made me laugh before it made me cry was originally a typing exercise? I didn't know whether it confirmed his brilliance or made me feel like I'd been suckered.

I bought the play this weekend and reread it for the first time since the summer I discovered it. Even with this backstory in my mind (and, for confirmation, in the playwright's introduction to the collection), I was equally moved by the play. Once again, I thought of how I wanted to see a production - and that it was one of the few plays I'd actually want to be in.

You know what I think is wrong? These letters. These goddamn letters. That's what's wrong with us, in my humble opinion ... I don't know. All I know is you're not quite the same when I see you, Andy. You're really not. I'm not saying you're a jerk in person. I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that this letter-writing has messed us up. It's a bad habit.

Sorry, sweetie, but it looks like the telephone wins in the end.

I highly recommend it. And the collection I bought includes "The Golden Age," which I'd never read before and just fell in love with. One of those plays that you can tell reads better on the page than it would on the stage, but what a read indeed.

No, I didn't mean to rhyme that much.

Gurney just makes me smile. And laugh, thinking that my introduction to his work came with the swagger and strut of a mesmerizing actor who seemed the modern day incarnate of James Dean...

"Everyone has a festival story."
----------
In other news. During yesterday's sleeping in, lounging around, reading and otherwise resting, I rented "Closer." Big surprise, I know. But that's irrelevant.

The point? Read the play. The movie was fascinating, although I was right about Natalie. But I yelled at the television at the end.