We ended up being seated next the night's sponsors, four VIPs whom my daughter's special events team wanted to ensure had a good time. Last year they apparently sat next to a couple who spent the night complaining about how much they hate gay people; the sponsors did not appreciate that one bit. This year, my daughter's boss decided her family would be a safe bet to seat next to the sponsors, and so there we were, schmoozing and clinking champagne glasses with them over every course. It was big fun, and our girl felt happy she could count on her crew to come through for her socially. She didn't sit with us this year. She was on her feet the whole night, making sure everything was happening according to plan. But she came by often, leaning over our shoulders to taste the dishes and sip the parade of champagnes.
Afterward, eight of us went out to dinner with the playwright himself, who was feeling very vulnerable right then because a woman had just come up to him and critiqued his story, opining that the daughter shouldn't had died in a road accident but should have put a gun to her head, that would have been more dramatic. I was appalled. How dare this woman? Besides, she was completely wrong. The couple in the play would have been inconsolable, and the dancing joyful spirit that was there helping them find their way back to each other would not have rung true. We all tried to reassure him and let him know how moved we were by what he had written. That women clearly has no idea that when you write a play and put in on stage, you're putting your very soul out there for people to love or to trample. It's terrifying.
Speaking of the small terrors of writing, my editor likes the new first chapter I wrote so now I can finally forge ahead with the rest of the book, which is what I am doing today.