Sadly, I feel that my writer colleagues who possess race privilege often engage in character origami: folding paper to and fro so it appears three dimensional when, in fact, it’s something that’s just plain flat.
“Wow! I just LOVE writing! I’m not crying at all!” I say, writing glorious draft after glorious draft. Or at least, this is how I feel my life should be, while in reality I’m crying in the bath at 6 p.m. on a Tuesday.
The scope of theatre in Toronto is greater than we give it credit for when we’re in our cups, tipsy, and bitching. But it’s when you’re at that place (cups, tipsy, bitching, etc.) that you can get to the heart of what you wish you’d seen.