I'm writing a play about first love and bear maulings, and it's surprisingly sad. I thought I was writing a comedy.

...that my adaptation of The Diamond in the Window become at some point a bit conflated with Gaiman's Sandman.

That's all right. I console myself with the knowledge that Gaiman was doing the Jungian cha-cha from the get go. So I'm not stealing. I'm tapping into the collective unconscious.

(And proving myself a gothy little fan girl.)

My colleagues were with me as far as "child of a changeling trying to establish personal identity and understand her family legacy by trekking out across a dangerous uncharted faerie wilderness," but then I lost them with the phrase: "...accompanied only by Bill, a magical tapeworm."

Poll