Well, here you have it. All of it. Seven years of painstaking work, of pain and creation, of wit, confusion, strength, compromise and achievement… of me, dreaming of nightmares.
To say that Buffy has been the greatest, most difficult and rewarding experience of my career thus far would actually be to undersell its significance. It represents the best work (again, so far) of so many talented people I can’t possibly name them all here. David Greenwalt and Marti Noxon, who ran the show with me are more responsible for its shape and terrible beauty than I ever intend to give them credit for, do spring to mind. But so many great writers, actors and crew labored beyond the beyond to make this show happen that it extended, as true art does, beyond my reach. This show ran me, not the other way around. It told me what to say, what to show, when to give comfort and when to draw blood. This show, seven years of it, is a living thing. Put it on your shelf, and go to bed. It’ll whisper to you in your sleep.
Originally posted here.