When we last left The Fork, it was still sitting quietly on that spreadsheet of “maybe someday” ideas — waiting patiently while life marched on with jobs, family, and mowing patterns in the lawn to keep the creative thing alive.

But as it turns out, sometimes an idea doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Sometimes, it grabs you by the collar and says, “Hey! Yeah, you wearing that Dodgers hat in Provo. It’s now or never, buddy.”

For The Fork, that moment came one ordinary Tuesday evening.

It was about 8:00 p.m., and I was scrolling through old emails — the way you do when you’re trying to avoid doing anything productive — when I stumbled onto a message from the nice people of the Echo Theatre, responding to a query I had sent regarding a full-length play. They kindly explained that they weren’t really looking for full-length works at the moment. But did I have a 10-minute play script that I could submit for their upcoming 10-minute play festival?

Then I saw the deadline: midnight. As in 4 hours away midnight.

Now, I’d love to tell you I had been polishing a short play for weeks, ready to fire off with a click. But no — I didn’t even know 10-minute plays were a thing.

I figured if I wanted a prayer of making the midnight deadline, I’d need to start with something at least half-baked so I could try to bake just the other half. I opened that Diet Coke-stained spreadsheet of half-baked ideas from those Baja Fresh burrito lunches years ago. My eyes landed on The Fork, an idea Ken came up with. I’d just take the opening scene, dialogue it out, and see if I could put a satisfying arc on it. I told no one about it. So that way if I couldn’t do it in time, or if I could but it was too terrible for the festival, I could walk away whistling nonchalantly like nothing to see here folks, move along, and I’d just live with being a little sleepy the next day.

So there I was — 8:15 p.m., sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop, a Diet Coke, and the half-mad determination that only a ticking clock can give you.

Starting with that old nugget of an idea — the mysterious food critic who can make or break a restaurant, complete with his golden fork for a good review and a plastic one for a bad, and two hopeful brothers recognizing this night was make or break for their restaurant — and turned it into a little stage story.

By 11:57 p.m. I hit “Submit.”

And then I figured, Well, at least I tried.

But here’s the kicker — a few days later, I got an email that made me do a double take:

“Congratulations! ‘The Fork’ has been selected for production in this year’s festival.”

Ken and I were floored. And when the play actually went up on stage — with actors, lights, and an audience — it was like watching an old dream step into real life.

Even better? The Fork ended up taking home the jury award as well as the audience choice award.

So what did I learn from racing the clock to bring The Fork to life?

• Sometimes a deadline is exactly what you need. Would The Fork have ever happened without that midnight deadline? Honestly, probably not. Deadlines make you stop thinking about being perfect — and start doing.
• Old ideas aren’t dead ideas. Just because something’s been sitting around for years doesn’t mean it can’t shine when it gets its moment. Old ideas are inventory.
• Usually I’m an outliner, but sometimes it pays to not over think it — you just need to start. 

So if you’ve got an old idea hanging out in the back of your mind — maybe find your midnight. Maybe it’s tonight, and maybe it’s time to say, “Let’s do it.”

Next time, I’ll share what happened after The Fork hit the stage — and how that one little play opened doors we never expected.

Because sometimes, all it takes is saying “yes” before the clock runs out.