My final 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken in Austin, Texas on New Year’s Eve in 2009.

Daily writing prompt, Day 90
Where I’m from.
- Kristoffer Diaz, playwright

Where I’m from. I think that the turtle was out of line at the meeting today, raising his little hand seven times during the opening remarks. His shell would turn bright green and his hand would shoot straight up into the air. It’s just a neighborhood meeting, after all.

Where I’m from. The color of the trim should match the stone in the house — it’s better feng shui, she said. He shot back, the color of the trim should compliment the siding — a bit darker though, a dark mocha.

Where I’m from. Better to be over-prepared than under-prepared, that why I always pack a spare set of batteries and a lamp for the projector that I will be presenting with.

Where I’m from. Too much sauce on a pizza is forgivable but too much cheese just doesn’t help anyone.

Where I’m from. Dad, have you ever heard of something called mutton busting, she asked. Do what, he said. Mutton busting, she repeated. Mutton bustin’, he asked. Yes, mutton busting, she answered. No Texas accent, he asked. I don’t know, she said. Like sheep hunting, he asked. Sheep hunting, no, she said. They wouldn’t stand much of a chance. It’s when little kids ride around on sheep as though they were adults on wild horses or bulls.

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken in east Austin a few days before the 2009 East Austin Studio Tour.

Daily writing prompt, Day 80
White people.
- Kristoffer Diaz, playwright

transcribed from Dave Chappelle’s standup: (There was one time where me and my white friend Chip) were driving. Now I’m not driving, Chip is driving and he’s driving a little crazy, he’d been drinking. I don’t like to let my friends drive drunk but you know I was smoking a joint, I couldn’t really say shit to the guy.

We stop at a red light, and a car pulls up next to us, and I’ll never forget it, Chip looks at me, he’s all drunk, and he’s like “Dave. I’m gonna race him.”

I knew it was a bad idea but I was high, I tried to explain to him it was a bad idea but all that came out was “Well, nigga sometimes you gotta race, I don’t know.” Man, that light turned green and Chip took off, zig zagging and shit so no one could pass us, the other car didn’t even know we was racing. Then, the police seen us and pulled us over.

Now you gotta understand, I’m scared as shit. I mean c’mon, the car smells like weed, we’ve been speeding, this man is fucking drunk. I was scared, Chip was not scared at all. It was weird, he didn’t even turn his radio down, isn’t that weird a little bit? I mean if you get pulled over, wouldn’t you turn your radio down? No one wants to their ass get beat to a soundtrack and shit. Know what I’m sayin’? Chip had the music blasting, ‘We’re not goin’ to take it.’ He said “Dave just relax. Let me do the talking.”

You want to know what he said? This is almost exactly what he said, I couldn’t believe it. “Oh, oh. I’m sorry officer. I didn’t know I couldn’t do that.” I was fucking shocked.

The cop said, “Well now you know, just get out of here, just get the fuck out of here.”

Chip said, “Okay, I will sir. Thank you. (Turning to Dave) What? What’s wrong with you Dave?”

(Dave) “I didn’t know I couldn’t do that?”"

(Chip) “That was good wasn’t it? Because I did know I couldn’t do that!” (Maniacal laughter)

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken on a late night New York sidewalk in 2009.

Daily writing prompt, Day 70

Something gets turned inside out.

- John Walch, playwright

Where are you? Where are you now?

Where am I? Where am I going?

Denied? Something inside, something not right?

Every bit of success that I have achieved in my life is owed a great debt to these two actions — my listening respectfully to every piece of advice that was given to me and then doing the exact opposite.

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken in a New York apartment in 2009.

Daily writing prompt, Day 60
Murder most foul!
- Daniel Alexander Jones, playwright/performer/director

The gleaming white frosting on the birthday cake amazes me, it shines in the harsh light of the rented hall. The red blood spatters, in contrast, are dull. Like cayenne pepper on a deviled egg.

The wood paneling and beveled windows are worn down. Bitten to the quick. The red and blue siren lights stab the air behind me from the one outside window.

It’s always surprising, blood is always surprising — no matter how often I see it.

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken in New Orleans in 2009.

Daily writing prompt, Day 50
The fun fact on the inside of a Snapple cap.
- Kristoffer Diaz, playwright

XX1: There was one.
XX2: This is ridiculous.
XX1: There was one, I know. She had to disguise herself as a man.
XX2: In the Revolutionary War? Come on!
XX1: I don’t remember her name, I can look it up though.
XX2: Women should not be in combat situations, period. That’s my point. I don’t care about what happened in history.
XX1: She was found out by a doctor, who fell in love with her.
XX2: That’s like a movie of the week.
XX1: I’m sure it’s true. I read it somewhere. A book. Newspaper. Maybe a bottle cap fact.
XX2: All of that fit on a bottle cap?
XX1: I don’t remember.
XX2: You’ve got the memory of an elephant.
XX1: Elephants have great memories.
XX2: It’s an urban myth.
XX1: How do you know?
XX2: I just know.
XX1: You know, when I was your age I thought I knew everything too.
XX2: But elephants do have great memories.
XX1: No, they don’t.
XX2: Yes, they do.
XX1: No.
XX2: Yes.
XX1: No!
XX2: Yes!

BEAT.

XX1: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes they do.

BEAT.

XX2: Okay, all right.
XX1: Thank you.
XX2: But I still think it’s ridiculous for women to be in combat.
XX1 (exasperated): Mom!

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken in my bedroom while writing.

Daily writing prompt, Day 40
Obsession.
- Janet Allard, playwright

I wonder if there’s more obsession in David’s lust for Bathsheba or in his attempt for cover-up and subsequent killing of Uriah the Hittite, her then husband?

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken at Laura’s Uncle Larry’s. The donkeys are rescues.

Daily writing prompts, Day 17
The confession of a crime.
- Caridad Svich, playwright

I could see the condensation of the milk begin to seep down the side of the plastic gallon container. I don’t know how long I’d been there, handcuffed to the folding chair, but I was sure that my mother had missed me by now.

I remembered two nights previous, sneaking in from a late night with friends. We had spent the last few hours doing donuts in the movie theater parking lot while we threw plastic soda bottles filled with dry ice and water at each other’s cars. For my return trip home, like most nights, I’d wait until the air conditioner — or the heater, depending on the season — clicked on and then crawl past my mother’s room, this was the only way to get to my room. She always left her door open and was the lightest of sleepers. And for whatever reason that night, the air conditioner shut off just as I was in front of her door. I froze and sucked in my breath.

“Wheldon,” she asked. “Is that you?”

This has never happened before, I thought. Fuck, there’s no way she can know that I’m here.

“I know you’re there.”

No way, I reminded myself. No way. My mother had been in car accident just last week and was in a full body cast, she could not get out of bed. I slowly, ever so slowly, let my breath out.

“Wheldon, I know you’re there.”

Nope, you’re not gonna get me, I thought. This is my game to lose.

And I waited, I waited as she called out my name over and over until the air conditioner clicked on and I could get to my room, using the noise as cover for my escape.

That was Tuesday and I wish that I could be back there now. If I had a time machine, I would go back to that hallway and I would answer my mother right away, tell her about the parking lot shenanigans, I would confess to the three suitcases of beer we liberated from the sac ‘n’ pac, I would tell her about hotwiring the Bronco from three blocks over with the super flex off-road suspension with the KC light covers, I would tell her everything.

And now, I was about to pay dearly for my derelictions.

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken on a recent road trip to Dallas, it’s the underneath view of a billboard sign at a Shell station. It was threatening to storm and I took it on my iPhone.

Daily writing prompt, Day 16
“I got nothing for ya,” was all he had to say…
- Kristen Gandrow, writer/dramaturg

“I got nothing for ya,” was all he had to say as he walked out the door. God, I hated when he used slang in that way, made him seem so unsophisticated. “See you, mañana,” he called out over his shoulder. How is this stranger my son, how was this miserable piece of shit created out of my DNA, how it is possible that such a pedestrian creature is related to me, I wondered and focused the single gleaming thought of my fist with my jutting upright middle finger at his retreating figure. He slammed the door behind him.

I sat there, mouth dry, just sat there. Like always, like everyday. I couldn’t say anything, god knows I can’t do anything. It’s not like I haven’t tried. Three months, three months since I last uttered a word, it’d been 12 weeks since I so much as wiggled my finger, it’d been 92 days since I lost control of my ‘68 Mustang, crashed headlong into a concrete barrier and woke up here unable to speak and unable to do anything but blink. At first, I thought I was dead. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m not but I have my days.

That’s not fair, he’s not a piece of shit. Keith was a good kid, he is a good kid, he has a good core anyway, and he’s like a clock about visiting his old man. Better than my wife anyway, ’til death do us part my ass. When he was four, four-years-old, he decided that he was old enough to bathe himself, he told me so. It breaks my heart when he carries me to the tub and gives me a sponge bath. I wish I could thank him, I wish I could tell him how proud of I am of him, I wish I could tell him something. Instead, I’ve got nothing, it’s me who has nothing for him.

Austin Script Works, every summer, runs a program called 30/60/90 — inspired by Suzan-Lori Parks’ 365 Days/365 Plays project — that encourages the daily practice of writing. Every morning at 4am, I receive a writing prompt by email, offered by all sorts of people — writers, therapists, actors, artists, etc. — each of whom also has some kind of daily practice. This is my first five efforts so you can expect eight more installments this summer. I’m trying to keep my writing time to 20 minutes and 10 minutes of editing.

Daily writing prompt, Day 1
A letter intended for one person falls into someone else’s hands many miles away.
- Caridad Svitch, playwright

When I was a kid, I always imagined that I’d find a bottle washed up on the shore, a bottle with a message in it, from some place far away, from some place much improved from this one. Maybe less imagined, more hoped because I grew up in a desert — where the nearest neighbor was an hour away and my sandbox playscape was peppered with a coexistence of Tonka trucks, Care Bears and Star Wars action figures.

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight and see a torrid love letter, someone who was pining for his lost match, clinging to a shard of wood in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the horizon in sight. Then, it was me bobbing in the ocean, brine licking at my chin and cheeks. Thinking of that one night, that melting evening of ours, where the dinner, the dancing, the drinks with fruit on the brim of the glass, the candlelight is dissolving along with the scent of your clothes. It’s becoming harder to remember, it’s a shrinking blossom of my dreams, of you. Everything dies — that’s a fact.

While adrift, night turns to day and day turns to night. I wonder how long it takes to get prune fingers when you’re floating in the Mediterranean? Eventually, a single star will emerge on the horizon to gaze at me, with what I imagine is intense purpose. Maybe it’s looking out for me, maybe it’s curious, maybe it’s just streaming light from 1,000 years ago — the echo of a memory, its own kind of unfinished moment — like it always does.

A cry for help, that’s more like it. A man, less muscle that he used to be, sitting at an out-of-fashion bar hell-bent on sucking down every damned drop in the place; GPS coordinates of a bare island stuffed in the bottle, significantly less picturesque than would be in the movie version of the same scene. The sun is not kind to the stranded — whether haunting a tropical locale, on street corners, or on doorsteps of orphanages. The paper on which the message was scribbled is waterlogged and barely legible after weeks at sea but optimism is nothing if not unfailing, even in the dimmest proportions.

A plea for forgiveness, a kind of perfect storm. An urge to come home but the locks have been long changed, your things pitched out into the street. A new family lives there, your old room has become a library, full of mystery paperbacks, out-dated encyclopedia sets, fad cookbooks and esoteric translations of religious texts.

She always talked to me in soft undertones there, like a mother. Her black hair was soft soft soft with a disapproving curl under her chin. She once asked me why I always looked so sad, why I never smiled, and I had no good answer for her. It’s not that I was unhappy I think, it was more that I never felt like it was a good fit. Eventually (and this took years), I became dependent on her, on her gentle words, on her disapproving rages, on her to not let me get lost in the twists and turns of the world outside. Thinking about it now, I don’t know how well she did her job. She … you know what, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

Something else come back to me just now, the glint of a memory, something small and bright. I’d always forget — and I mean always — to empty my shoes before entering the house, to pour the sand out of my shoes. And she would chide me, using an in-between tone of voice after I’d leave little sprinkles of sand on the floor, in the carpets, in doorways. Little reminders of me, a trail to follow when lost, a way to fall asleep when my brain is too busy.

In my youth, everything around me was strong and cool, a palm tree oasis with twinkling, smooth sand for a base. Huge spaces, black nights and strong winds, that’s how I will always remember Saudi Arabia. As soon as I turn sixteen, I will run from here as fast as I can, a glass bottle pitched and tossed on rough, gruff seas.

You remember last year’s Weekend Fling? In February, my play — from one comic book geek to another — was chosen for production. *cheers*

shout-outs: Sonnett, my director, is a dreamboat. Mister Mudd, Laetitia and Jude — my actors, I know they’re in other shows, but they’re MY actors — are fabulous. And Monika — my dramaturg — is so smart. And Elena is super keen — script input as well as illustration assistance. And the stage management — Casey and Becca — who could ask for anything more?

If you want to see the show — how can you not want to see the show? really? — you’ve got five chances. It runs April 14-17, 2004 at 8 PM and April 18 at 3 PM at the State Theater, 719 Congress Avenue (next door to the Paramount).

Call 512-454-9727 for reservations. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.