The Tempest would not exist. Macbeth would lack some vital sword fights. Given the insidious, time-consuming seduction of blogging, I suspect we’d only have some half-finished sonnets, a recipe for shepherd’s pie, and a bunch of photographs of Stratford-on-Avon.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the way."
Oh, and some one-act plays.
Juliet would have said, screw it – County Paris is ok, at least my dad likes him. Hamlet would have decided to be. Othello would have had a beer instead. There’d be a Sixth Night, A Bit of Ado, The Merry Wife of Windsor, One Gentleman of Verona, and a Comedy of Error.
And there’d be none of the shit no one reads anyway, unless it’s thesis time -- Titus Andronicus, Cymbeline, Coriolanus ...
"Love!" Anne H would have said, as Shakespeare pulled the savory pork pie from the oven, "no labor lost here."