The past two months have been a difficult time for the Dramahound. On Holy Saturday, one of my closest friends died. The friend who saw every reading the whole time I've lived in New York, every showcase, read drafts, read my first leadsheet in her kitchen, the friend I’d always assumed would help me bury my parents, clean out their house, etc. She is gone, 32 years earlier than her own mother died. I miss her every day.
This past week I’ve been working on a TV pilot with my brother Vincent for Romanian television. We worked very hard, the first time we worked together, and we and the producer/director are all exhausted. But we did good, and it’s a mighty fine outline. Of which Dodo, a writer herself, would have been proud.
I'd imagined one's close friends died when you were old; my grandmother in her 80s told me all the time how much she missed her contemporaries. But this is brutal.