Another albatross to slay

It’s eight in the morning. I’m praying for rain. I don’t mean a sprinkle–I mean full-on, torrential rain. I want to stay home, to sleep to the sound of a downpour.
Alas, not my lot. I have a monologue to revise.
No, wait. Revise is not the word I want. It’s expand. The playwright brought me a sheaf of new pages with the demand, “translate these pages, in full, word for word.”
I resent the fact that he has moved the goalposts. And the fact that he considers his work so sacrosanct, that nobody has the right to revise even a stroke or an iota, irritates the hell out of me. Does he think that he can drop his script on the desk of a screenwriter, and not have it altered in some way?! (He is angling for a Hollywood deal. Ha bloody ha.) Does he think that he will enjoy the sort of license that, say, M. Night Shyamalan enjoys? Or that, if he uses jargon, that he is a genius?

I almost want to send one of these monologues to an actual movie studio–let it languish on the slush pile!
Enough ranting. I need to get this over and done with. The sooner I do, the better–and the closer I can get to cutting the playwright out of my life.