My playwriting mentor just passed away.
His name was Scott. He was a wonderfully intelligent, funny, astute man with the ability to make you feel like you could do anything just as he was telling you all the ways you were totally fucking up.
But he did it so kindly. Above all he was kind. Acerbic and droll but always filled with this positive energy.
Scott believed in me. Before anyone else really did. Definitely before I did. I was 17 when we met and right after he read my stuff, he told me I had “it.” He called me “Prodigy” and I found out later that he wasn’t joking. He saw great things for my future and all I wanted was to prove him right. Under his guidance, I wrote what is still one of the best things I’ve ever written.
I stopped writing plays for a while. But I recently started up again, and was planning on sending him a draft of my current project. Then I opened up the LA Times and saw his headshot. I thought for a second maybe he was opening a new play in LA. But it was an obituary.
I can’t believe you’re gone. I’m sitting here trying to write a play about grief with tears streaming down my face because I was planning on sending you a draft of this play and instead I’m grieving you.
I never could have seen this coming, but the play is in part going to be about you. How could it not be?
I want to write it as well as you believed I could.
This is my favorite picture of Scott. I think it encapsulates him perfectly.
The world is a little darker without him dancing through it.