Wait for it. . . . long, long ago . . . . in a place far, far away. And the story begins. I’ve been occupied with re-writes and re-writes of synopses and re-writes of character breakdowns. There were script submission deadlines for contests and then for good measure I sent various “submission packages” to a few theatres. I am a “long-winded” storyteller. There is no short version. There is no “cut to the chase” or “land the plane.” I may, in fact, have developed an even slower pace of sharing my Southern tales as my hair has grayed. Some things in life cannot be rushed. Like a good roux. You can’t hurry it along. Ask anyone from Louisiana.

And that’s were the thorn lives. Compressing a heart pounding, breath holding scene into an intriguing phrase or at best one sentence takes concentration and persistence. It is creating the sizzle. It is what a writer does. Isn’t it? My hope is that the reader of this one page synopsis will want to read more. That “more” means the full script. And with script in hand, the artistic director will not stop reading until she reads “End of Play.”

Then, the story begins.

A forgotten white onion, nesting on my kitchen counter, sprouted glorious green offshoots. Having an extra plastic pot on the back patio, I gently planted my onion. It took hold. I don’t know the future of my onion, but it is thriving with little white flowers to show for its tenacity. Let’s all hold on for another day. You never know where the story ends.