I posted this in the middle of the night. Alex said he didn’t see it, so it’s probably in some midnight hole in his newsfeed… and others, I presume. I don’t know. I’m new at this…. so if you already saw it, please forgive me.
Sometime in 1929, while holed up with the flu at a fancy hotel in Shanghai, my favorite playwright, Noel Coward, woke up in the middle of the night, picked up pen and paper, and wrote his signature comedy, Private Lives.
Evidently, I’ve caught a different strain of the flu.
I’ve read he woke up with a vision of his muse, the seductive actress Gertrude Lawrence, wearing a clingy white dress by the French designer Molineux.
I woke up looking for the roll of toilet paper that I took to bed, knowing I’d get up at some point with snot rolling down my face.
They say that the great writers can write anywhere, under any kind of adversity… physical, mental, or environmental. St. Therese wrote The Story of a Soul in a tiny convent cell, while wracked with tuberculosis. Anne Frank wrote her diary in her cramped and secret annex, filled with…
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