Whither Novels?

Just got the question, from an unhappy theatre fan.  As she put it to me...

You write such beautiful plays , what the heck are you doing writing novels now?

Well, it's been a long process in coming, but basically my writing has grown too searching to fit into the one hundred minutes granted in stagetime.

Put another way - since I believe that all artists either accept that they are entertainers or that the only applause received will be their own - the most common remark about my last plays A Dropped Stitch, Teacup Tipsy and One Tile Short went as follows:

Um, I'm not sure I got all that.  I'm going to have to see it again.  Maybe three times.

Not a good sign.

Imagine my shock when one of the sweetest hearts in the world, an old theatre salt of decades' experience, quietly confided in me that she understood only about one third of Man In The Box's lines in Teacup Tipsy.  And that was after I felt artistically frustrated at having to take out, compress, boil down, etc., the writing.

In contrast, when I was writing Fighting for Eden, the canvas (so to speak) was so incomprehensibly huge that I felt lost in it for months at a time.  Over-shadowed, humbled, even crushed at times by the gargantuan portions.

Which is why, whenever I pick up a copy, I know that I am holding a year of my life in my hands.

At any rate, yes, I am certain that I will write for the stage again someday.  Just not soon.  At the least, I really want to finish this second big canvas, first.