I am 11 hours and three days into a writing session with a team who are writing a Broadway musical. I just put on my winter coat and announced I could not think another second about our project, so now I’m lying on the floor of a massive Nashville practice hangar as my colleagues press on. I look like a day-old banana peel. There are tire marks on me. Massive banks of fluorescent lights are pinning me to the floor. I’m officially flaccid. Ew.
I’m the only gross thing in this picture though, and I’m O.K. with it.
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