Why Write?

It’s the year 3025. Eight hundred years ago, a comet struck the Earth, triggering a new ice age. Only a sliver of humanity survived, clinging to a narrow equatorial band just a hundred miles wide. These survivors returned to a primal way of life—hunting, and gathering, enduring. Centuries passed. The skies clear. An Iron Age emerged, followed by a new Renaissance. As humanity ventured north and south, they began to uncover remnants of forgotten civilizations. Crumbling architecture. A picture of someone named Robert Kennedy. A rusted emblem from a car called Ford. A football. A torn reel from a film named Titanic. An ancient ad for Chipotle Mexican Grill.

And a play by someone named Bob. No last name. Just Bob.

That’s how we should write—boldly as if our words will be unearthed a thousand years. As if our scripts will be all that remains to tell future civilizations what theatre—or a novel—once was. Writing for today’s audience is futile; there’s too much noise and clutter. Write instead for the future. For the explorer named Barombalatta, who digs up your manuscript and gives it a curious look. That person—that being—is your true audience.