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I think I said once that I’ve always like the word wright—W-R-I-G-H-T—as the suffix
of playwright. I hate it when it’s spelled “P-L-A-Y-R-I-T-E” because I love it, the
word wright, as in cartwright or wheelwright, something that is made, that’s hammered
out in the yard, that’s wrought into shape. Curiously, I know what the past of write in
that sense is, it’s wrought, something is wrought, but I don’t know what the present
is. I’m not wrighting a wheel, am I? I wonder. I wish someone would tell me. But that concept
I love very much, the idea that I’m a playwrighter, hammering the play into its shape, wrestling
with it to some extent, although, of course, when it comes out and is seen by the public,
it should not see the struggle or the effects of the struggle. That should not be evident.