I know this playwright. His students called him “The Master” back in undergrad. And he was. Is. Masterful. Produced by theaters you’d recognize in New York, California, London. A few of his plays became movies with household-name stars. You get the picture: he’s a cut above everyone else. Maybe two cuts.
But disappointment just pours out of him.
Always compares himself to the now mega-famous writers he came up with. They can’t write like him, but…they’ve got something he doesn’t. Success. Dollar signs. Broadway. Reviews you’d kill for. In short: Recognition in all its forms.
Funny thing is, he’s got recognition in spades from his peers.
Amazing writer.
Most underrated writer in the business.
A master.
Pity it never happened for him.
I’ve heard the same thing said about some actors I know. And painters. And musicians. Even some scientists. All hidden gems. Undiscovered genius.
And they are. And they’re not.
And all of them are kind, generous, emotionally mature human beings.
And all of them quietly curse themselves.
What did I do wrong?
Not kiss enough ass? Or the correct ass?
F*! that. F*! them. F*! it all.
Then silence. A dangerous, raw kind of silence.
Then back they go, masters all, to whatever board they draw on.
To wrestle some more.
Don't ask me how I know. Beats the life out of me.