Baby, I didn’t mean it

So, I've been working on this play, which I was calling the Rainbow play and then I was calling the f*(#@ing rainbow play and then ended up calling it the Thing. What are you doing? Hating the Thing. I was trying to rewrite it, I've been trying to write and rewrite the thing for a couple of months, on and off, and well, I think I've killed it. I think I killed it until it is dead. I'm not quite sure what I did or whether it is actually dead or just in a head trauma deep coma from the banging with a blunt instrument (read: my pen) but I've come to the conclusion that once you start calling your play The Thing, it's time to put it down. Let it rest. Let it heal. I hold hope that there will be a time in the future where it will flicker its eyes and I will know what to do with it. I have so many plays like this. My writing room is really an intensive care facility for plays in various stages of recovery from the brutal beating I have delivered in the pursuit of artistic glory. I'm like the neighbourhood thug. Plays should really run and hide when they see me coming. But then again, plays survive. The beatings I gave New Light Shine would make normal people weep at the sheer, thuggish brutality (For one draft I set it all in a forest – for anyone who has read it, you know what a beating that is) but it recovered, it really did. Some plays don't know how to die. So deep down, while I beat the crap out of plays some time, I really do love them all.