I spend about two hours in the morning trying to figure out what time it is and if I’m late for my breakfast with the Director. Because it’s so early, most of this is done if the dark, fumbling with various clocks and laptops set for EST and CST.

The phone rings — My wake up call arranged the night before. Only, I can’t remember what time I told them to call. So I have no idea what time it is.

I’m not this stupid in real life. Traveling has made me this way.

Eventually I decide to subtract an hour and hope for the best. When the clock says 9:00, I head upstairs, hoping I’m not an hour late.

In the lounge of the Dutch Colony Hotel, the Director is watching a ‘Dukes of Hazard’ rerun.

“Looking for some last minute inspiration?” I ask.

We swipe a quick continental breakfast from the hotel and discuss the day’s events. Bob, the Director, is worried about the response to the show — not the sexuality so much as the darkness, particularly in the Underworld sequence. I say that the best we can hope for are questions, a chance to have a dialogue.

He agrees and heads off to teach.

I and my entourage repair to Nederlander’s diner up the street to eat a proper breakfast and discuss Bob’s concerns about the Underworld scene. As usual, Keeley has more insight into the solution than I could ever hope to find on my own and so I rehearse a few answers on the off-chance that a fundamentalist Christian might show up to the talkback later in the evening. If they’re Reformed, they’ll want to talk . . . if not, it’ll be letters to the President and Board of Trustees.

I highly recommend Nederlander’s, if you’re ever in Orange City. Great service, warm and hospitable staff, and a most excellent cup of coffee.

After breakfast, we head over to the school to get a tour of the facility and theatre. I get to see tables of masks and props for a show I started writing almost five years ago. Everything looks amazing and inert and I can’t quite put it together with what I’ve been seeing in my mind all this time while I’ve been writing.

There are Barbie dolls on the table, cut in half and joined by a circlet of elastic. Bob won’t tell me what they are for. I am not sure I want to know.

But it’s a relief to see that someone put a giant teddy bear in there. That makes me happy.

Keeley holds up one of the masks — Hermes — and suddenly I can see him there, bobbing and babbling.

The set is gorgeous. A beautiful swooping rake painted like a vase with these finely textured nets hanging around it. I get to walk around on it and all I can think is . . . well . . . I’m very lucky.

Eventually I (gulp) get ready for my lecture to the Theatre as Arts class. Bob, the Director, tells me that he postponed a quiz due to my visit . . . I figure I can say something worth testing them on later.

When he introduces me, they applaud.

Gulp, bob my head in gratitude, start talking…

Stealing heavily from the process at work, I babble about my process, taking the notes I wrote three weeks earlier and adapting them into something mildly coherent. Apparently, do a fairly good job of keeping everyone engaged . . . except for a girl in the third row who obviously isn’t buying it at all.

The best bit was Stan Greene’s story about The Maze…

Do you know the one foolproof way to get through a maze? You close your eyes, put out your left hand, and lay it on the wall. Then walk, following the wall. Eventually you will get out.

If you open your eyes, you’ll start to doubt where you are. You’ll want to find a shortcut. You’ll take your hand off the wall and follow your eyes instead. And then you’ll be lost.

Stan Greene is a really smart man.

When you’re adapting something, the original text is the maze. If you take you hand off it, you’re lost.

They get it. They ask me questions. Some of them are in the Playwriting class and, although they haven’t seen the play yet, they have studied the script.

I’m staggered by the thought. Students have been studying my work, writing papers about it.

There is nothing better than this.

I survive. I enjoy it. I do a fairly good job lecturing about something I barely know anything about. And I think I avoid most of the visiting-pretentious-writer pitfalls (although the girl in the third row might disagree) and most everyone laughs at my jokes and, for the second time, they applaud.

Afterwards I realize that, although I went out of my way to purchase a microphone specifically for the trip, I completely forget to record the lecture.

All my wisdom and clever jokes are lost to the mists of time.

Which means, fortunately, I cannot post them here for download.

And then we head off to lunch.