Here’s my first memory of your father. He’s standing onstage during rehearsal. I’m in the audience, but I’m not an audience member. I’m the playwright. We’re young, painfully naive, and taking this more seriously than we’ve ever taken anything in our lives. I thought this play, my play, would change everything, though in hindsight it wasn’t anything special: a solid two hours of a girl dropping out of art school (based not that loosely on me), realizing that she doesn’t need a man. I know, big surprise. And this is 2011. This is like seventeenth-wave feminism.
