When I was 20, after two years of successful workshops and readings with some of the best of the Minneapolis theater community (and one year-long hiatus in L.A.), I landed my first professional production. I shared the bill with five other playwrights. Our one acts rotated nights in a 10-week run–three on one night, then the other three the following night, Thursday-Sunday.

The play was about two friends, Jack and Jill (and yes, it was a play on the nursery rhyme), who have lunch every Thursday. One Thursday, Jack doesn’t show up, Jill files a missing persons report with the police, and on it goes. The play was funny and dark. Flawed, yes. Terrible ending, absolutely. But it was funny. I know because every night the audience roared so loudly the actors had to wait to speak so they could be heard over the laughter. 

One morning after our second week, I drove to the 7-11 in my pajamas to get the paper, too excited to get dressed. Sitting in my car near the pay vacuum, I frantically flipped through the newspaper and there it was: my review. 

What I did next was the worst thing I’ve ever done: I read my review and because of one line–one line–I stopped writing for more than a year. And when I started up again it was with such trepidation it was years before I found my confidence again.

The line started like this: “I think the playwright meant the play to be funny, but…”

With one line, I negated the audiences that laughed through sold-out performances. I ignored the positive comments from my mentors. And I wandered through the next few weeks like a ghost, just waiting for the run to be over. Then, I stopped trying for a long time and lost the footing I gained in the theater community. I killed my own dream.

See your audience? See them enjoying the show? See them laughing? Write for them. Fuck everyone else.