Who said that? Wasn't it Tennessee Williams? That a play's not a play until somebody puts it up onstage. So, really, playwrights are scriptwriters, right? We write scripts, the blueprints to a play. Still, there is that funny little business about being play-wrights, and not play-writers. So maybe, just like for a shipwright a ship isn't something useful until it's launched (what's more useless than a ship on land?) in that sense we're forging plays, but they're useful until they're on stage.
But the question is, how to get it from being a script to a play? That's where I stand now in my career as a playwright. We--I--write these things not to keep in a drawer, but for people to hear and see them. I've said it once, and I'll say it again, despite so many writers being of the quiet, introspective type, there is a certain arrogance associated with the act of writing. You are saying, I have something to say, and you better darn well listen.
I am entering a stage where I'm sending my plays out to theaters. Not flooding the market, but picking and choosing theaters whose work I admire and where I'd like to see my work produced. Or where it seems like there would be a good match. And sure, I'm sending scripts to theaters that are putting out the word that they are looking for full-length and one-act plays whose work I don't know, but maybe I should know. They're saying they're looking, so they must be, right?
Still, all I keep hearing is the old model is broken, the one where playwrights send scripts to a theater and then the theater puts on the play. I don't want to address that issue right now. That's a whole nuther kettle of fish.
Right now, playwrights still have to send out scripts to theaters where they aren't known, where they don't have any relationship yet. (I was reading about Paula Vogel's career last night, and she and Molly Smith at the Arena Stage have a relationship that dates back a long way.) You have to start somewhere, and yes, I still believe that despite the obstacles that producers and artistic directors are facing today, I can't help but think that when they sit down and open an envelope there is this hope against hope that This Will Be The One.
I was just faced with sending a script out to two Very Big Deal theaters, and the question I grappled with was, What else do I put in the box besides a script? Neither theater asked for anything except a script formatted a particular way. One said a short bio could be included, but it wasn't necessary. One theater I saw (not one of the two where I just sent scripts) said send them a script and anything else we can think of that might entice them to look at my work. I think back on all the job application letters I've written over the years, trying all sorts of ploys to break through the clutter--funny, serious, straight, clever, coy--and I'm not sure what worked on any given day. In the past, some, but not all, of the best jobs I had were ones from people I already knew, or through relationships I had from making appointment after appointment with different creative people throughout Boston. I think that holds true with getting plays produced, too. But as I said, not all the time. The Provincetown Theater produced one of my plays--produced it marvelously, I might add--and no one knew me there.
This time, I questioned whether I should include a bio, but in the end, I included a short, short letter with one sentence telling them I am currently a graduate student at Boston University, and thought to myself, in the end, it's the play that's going to have to stand on its own, so let's see if it's as good as I think it is. In lieu of the theater knowing me or my work, this is all I've got right now.
Showing posts with label Playwriting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Playwriting. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
How To Stay A New York Playwright...Or Anything Else For That Matter
There was this post on HotReview.org that was making the rounds among the theater makers that I'm hanging out with, more hanging out online than anywhere else, but that counts, doesn't it? Right? An online relationship is just as good, if not better, than a real face-to-face one where you actually have to do all these annoying things like, well, wait for your turn to talk while the other person goes on and on and on about, well, God, I don't know because I'm really not listening. Or feign sympathy because the other person's cat died.
(Ok, all that was a joke, meant to for the style of the writing. If your cat just died I am sincerely sorry. No, really, I am. And whatever it was you were talking about, I really am happy for you. Really, I am.)
Anyway, where the heck was I?
This post about the sacrifices that you have to make if you want to be a playwright. It's good, dead on, and I found myself nodding my head because it nails some real-life things, like flossing and brushing your teeth because you can't afford a dentist. If I'm home all day writing and doing the laundry and baking bread and doing all the things I do to try to keep some semblance of order in our little home, I'll brush my teeth maybe three times during the day because I can't afford (time, energy, money) to have major dental work done.
But this post also got me thinking that anything you really want to do takes that kind of sacrifice. Sue and I are wanderers. It's one of the really strong bonds between us because we both love--love, I tell you, love--to travel. And more importantly, we love backpacking. We love the local buses and local restaurants and just soaking up culture that otherwise is sanitized in a Marriott or a Hilton or a big tour bus. In other words, we travel cheap, but when it comes to travel it still can be expensive. As a matter of fact, there are a lot of parallels to being a playwright and a backpacker.
No one believes me, but we have financed quite a few trips now on spare change. That's right. We have a cookie jar that we throw our spare change into. And we also throw in the money we might have spent. For instance if I'm getting a cup of coffee and that piece of marble cake for $2.50 looks so good, I ask myself if I really want it. And then I think of our stock saying in that situation: $2.50 will buy a lot of beer in Mexico. Well, maybe not a lot of beer in this case, but it will buy a beer in Mexico and so I pocket the change and when I get home I chuck it in the cookie jar. You'd be surprised how much money you can accumulate by living like that.
What this article says to me is that if you really want something bad enough, there are sacrifices you're going to have to make, and many if not all of them are going to be in the materialistic world. That world is such a suck of time and money and energy. And you just have to decide what you really want in life, and then put all your resources towards it. Including your dental floss.
(Ok, all that was a joke, meant to for the style of the writing. If your cat just died I am sincerely sorry. No, really, I am. And whatever it was you were talking about, I really am happy for you. Really, I am.)
Anyway, where the heck was I?
This post about the sacrifices that you have to make if you want to be a playwright. It's good, dead on, and I found myself nodding my head because it nails some real-life things, like flossing and brushing your teeth because you can't afford a dentist. If I'm home all day writing and doing the laundry and baking bread and doing all the things I do to try to keep some semblance of order in our little home, I'll brush my teeth maybe three times during the day because I can't afford (time, energy, money) to have major dental work done.
But this post also got me thinking that anything you really want to do takes that kind of sacrifice. Sue and I are wanderers. It's one of the really strong bonds between us because we both love--love, I tell you, love--to travel. And more importantly, we love backpacking. We love the local buses and local restaurants and just soaking up culture that otherwise is sanitized in a Marriott or a Hilton or a big tour bus. In other words, we travel cheap, but when it comes to travel it still can be expensive. As a matter of fact, there are a lot of parallels to being a playwright and a backpacker.
No one believes me, but we have financed quite a few trips now on spare change. That's right. We have a cookie jar that we throw our spare change into. And we also throw in the money we might have spent. For instance if I'm getting a cup of coffee and that piece of marble cake for $2.50 looks so good, I ask myself if I really want it. And then I think of our stock saying in that situation: $2.50 will buy a lot of beer in Mexico. Well, maybe not a lot of beer in this case, but it will buy a beer in Mexico and so I pocket the change and when I get home I chuck it in the cookie jar. You'd be surprised how much money you can accumulate by living like that.
What this article says to me is that if you really want something bad enough, there are sacrifices you're going to have to make, and many if not all of them are going to be in the materialistic world. That world is such a suck of time and money and energy. And you just have to decide what you really want in life, and then put all your resources towards it. Including your dental floss.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Who Are Your Artistic Influencers?
It's a question an artist gets asked quite a lot in the theater. Or it's something that gets discussed generally. Who are your influencers? Whose work do you admire? It assumes your work doesn't come from within. Or that there isn't anything new, only recycled. And it's true, dat. Who knows what goes on in the subconscious, when you're so focused on a scene or even a line or two that, unaware to you, you're digging into your favorite playwright file.
But I also think it's a chicken and the egg question.
In my short playwriting career, anyone can see that I at the very least admire August Wilson and Sam Shepard. They both put characters on stage that had never been onstage before. August Wilson writes plays that are true to his people. I try to do the same thing. Sam Shepard writes about the American family the same way I try to, and seems to have the same point of view of American society, where it's headed, and where the answers lie. It was a compliment to me when someone, after reading Fool for Love for the first time, said, Oh, now I can see your sensibilities and why you like Sam Shepard. But I don't go around intentionally writing the way they do. If I do anything of the kind at all it's that I might use them as a departure and try to take my own riff on things. But one thing I don't think you'll ever see is a play I've written "set on an island off the coast of Massachusetts." To use a newspaper adage, it's not my beat.
And of course I admire Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neil. Just look how I write stage directions. I could read either one of those writers simply for their stage directions.
But more to the point, just like Wilson's major influences were, as he called them, the Four B's (the blues, Amiri Baraka, Romare Bearden, and Jorge Luis Borges), I wouldn't say I necessarily draw inspiration from the theater and playwrights. Heavens. My big gripe with most theater people is they spend way too much time in the theater. I think any artist should live their lives--raise families, travel, work on a shrimp boat in the Gulf--and then take what you learn and put it on the canvas, or in your music, or on the stage. So many of the people I talk to know so much more about the theater than I do, but I wonder if they know anything about their fellow human beings.
I started out in life as a photographer. To this day I am a very visual person, to the point where one of my profs, in exasperation I think, said one of my scripts was a screenplay, not a theater script. I was intentionally trying to write small visual snippets for the stage (think the end of Blasted.) She was not going to have any of it, though. I do constantly try to work visuals onto the stage, and when someone asks me what my influencers are, I'm always a bit nervous to actually tell the truth.
But then today I stumbled on this very interesting short documentary on Henri Cartier-Bresson, who should be on everyone's list of favorites artists, and should be a mentor for anyone who works in the arts because his approach to his work can, I think, be applied to anyone's art: painting, music, theater. His work was so influential (there's that word again) to so many of today's photographers, that to not know him and is work is a crime.
And then, I don't know why except I think in life circumstances happen that seem coincidental--I don't know if they are supposed to happen or that we're just more aware that they happen--but then over email I got notice of this project by Magnum photographers. Again, everyone should know about Magnum and the photographers who worked for this great agency. They are the greatest photographers in the world, and their approach to their work is something that all artists should strive. What they do with images playwrights try to do with words. As I looked through the photographers' portfolios, I was inspired to write a play about the people and things I saw. These people bring new worlds within the boundaries of own world, and they teach us.
Right now, I think I can say the one writer I greatly admire is Cormac McCarthy, and not for his success in the American cinema. Nor do I necessarily want to emulate him, but I do like the worlds he conjures up (and how he does it.)
Musically (and this will come as no surprise) but I love any of the great country singers (two favorites are Lucinda Williams and Chris Knight) for their storytelling abilities. (Here's just one example from Chris Knight.) The songs they write have so much drama and tension in them. And again, none of them are set on an island off the coast of Massachusetts.
But I also think it's a chicken and the egg question.
In my short playwriting career, anyone can see that I at the very least admire August Wilson and Sam Shepard. They both put characters on stage that had never been onstage before. August Wilson writes plays that are true to his people. I try to do the same thing. Sam Shepard writes about the American family the same way I try to, and seems to have the same point of view of American society, where it's headed, and where the answers lie. It was a compliment to me when someone, after reading Fool for Love for the first time, said, Oh, now I can see your sensibilities and why you like Sam Shepard. But I don't go around intentionally writing the way they do. If I do anything of the kind at all it's that I might use them as a departure and try to take my own riff on things. But one thing I don't think you'll ever see is a play I've written "set on an island off the coast of Massachusetts." To use a newspaper adage, it's not my beat.
And of course I admire Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neil. Just look how I write stage directions. I could read either one of those writers simply for their stage directions.
But more to the point, just like Wilson's major influences were, as he called them, the Four B's (the blues, Amiri Baraka, Romare Bearden, and Jorge Luis Borges), I wouldn't say I necessarily draw inspiration from the theater and playwrights. Heavens. My big gripe with most theater people is they spend way too much time in the theater. I think any artist should live their lives--raise families, travel, work on a shrimp boat in the Gulf--and then take what you learn and put it on the canvas, or in your music, or on the stage. So many of the people I talk to know so much more about the theater than I do, but I wonder if they know anything about their fellow human beings.
I started out in life as a photographer. To this day I am a very visual person, to the point where one of my profs, in exasperation I think, said one of my scripts was a screenplay, not a theater script. I was intentionally trying to write small visual snippets for the stage (think the end of Blasted.) She was not going to have any of it, though. I do constantly try to work visuals onto the stage, and when someone asks me what my influencers are, I'm always a bit nervous to actually tell the truth.
But then today I stumbled on this very interesting short documentary on Henri Cartier-Bresson, who should be on everyone's list of favorites artists, and should be a mentor for anyone who works in the arts because his approach to his work can, I think, be applied to anyone's art: painting, music, theater. His work was so influential (there's that word again) to so many of today's photographers, that to not know him and is work is a crime.
And then, I don't know why except I think in life circumstances happen that seem coincidental--I don't know if they are supposed to happen or that we're just more aware that they happen--but then over email I got notice of this project by Magnum photographers. Again, everyone should know about Magnum and the photographers who worked for this great agency. They are the greatest photographers in the world, and their approach to their work is something that all artists should strive. What they do with images playwrights try to do with words. As I looked through the photographers' portfolios, I was inspired to write a play about the people and things I saw. These people bring new worlds within the boundaries of own world, and they teach us.
Right now, I think I can say the one writer I greatly admire is Cormac McCarthy, and not for his success in the American cinema. Nor do I necessarily want to emulate him, but I do like the worlds he conjures up (and how he does it.)
Musically (and this will come as no surprise) but I love any of the great country singers (two favorites are Lucinda Williams and Chris Knight) for their storytelling abilities. (Here's just one example from Chris Knight.) The songs they write have so much drama and tension in them. And again, none of them are set on an island off the coast of Massachusetts.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Networking and the Theater
I'm the sort of writer who all he wants to do, deep down, is sit in a little cottage overlooking a quiet body of water and write all day. And then at the end of the day I spend the time with Sue and my kids and my dumb dog and listen to some music and have a nice dinner with a decent bottle of wine on the porch that overlooks the water.
Well, that ain't the way it goes.
What's I'm learning more than anything about the playwriting business is how much of it is a business. And how much I have to learn. There's TCG and Humana and the O'Neil Center and this fellowship and this conference and how it seems you have to know all this and be connected to all that. You just don't write a play and people recognize you for the genius you are and then they put it on and everyone loves it so much they come to the next play that you write. It may seem as if that's how it works, but that's only the outside looking in.
I've always been a writer, no doubt. But I've always been bad at networking. I've always been one of those people on the fringe, watching. Hell, I thought that's what writers did: They observed then wrote about the things they saw. And I always thought the social part was best left to the people whose time wasn't occupied with writing and art.
And I've never been good with groups, always much more comfortable one-on-one with people.
And I know so much of this is colored by all that time--years!--spent in the corporate world, trying to fit in with people who I really didn't fit in with. I truly was the round peg trying to fit into the square hole (and square it was, so surprising for what you might expect from a software company, so mainstream, so conservative, so mind-numbing boring, filled with people whose value system was based on a house in the suburbs and not rocking the boat.) But that all came later. There were places and people who I look back open with a great amount of fondness. At one point I worked in a department where now I realize we really were all family.
But the world changed and business changed along with it, until finally I found myself in some sort of twisted Fellini/Tarantino/Disney world. Which brings me to networking.
I would have to go to conferences (all of them in Orlando because that was the sensibility of the president and owner of the company) and I would spend about a week trying to blend into the wallpaper because no one, and I mean no one, had a bit of interest in spending time with me. It was high school all over again, except I actually liked high school. I guess, yes, in retrospect, I lived out my high school days in my thirties, dealing with people who, as Lou Reed sings, were doing things I gave up years ago. I went from having friends and working with people who respected me and the work I did, to being a veritable outcast. I'm not even sure how it happened.
I remember one particular incident--an evening soiree, I guess you could call it--where I was with some co-workers, people who I shared an office with and with whom I worked with everyday, who actually ditched me. Ditched me. I can't believe I just typed those words and that I can truthfully say that something that embarrassing happened to me as an adult. And the next day we all acted like it didn't happened. No, what the hell happened to you guys? Where'd you go? I thought you were going to wait for me? None of that. Just an obvious signal that we don't like you. That was just one of so many times when I just swallowed my pride and said I have to do this. Yeah. I know. The question is why did I have to do it, and the answer was I could telecommute most days of days a week and it paid good money, which meant I could take care of my kids while my then wife could work on her career. The things we do for our loved ones.
The company would put us up in these hotels dotted throughout the theme parks, actually pretty nice rooms, and I would dread it, because I would have these nightmares that were ferocious. One I remember with such vividness that even today I wonder if it was a dream or if it actually happened: I dreamed that storm troopers burst into my room, broke the door down, and I clearly heard gunshots, and the sound of ejected cartridges hitting the walls and the floor and furniture, and the smell of gunpowder. What part of the recesses of my psyche that came from I don't know, but it's pretty telling that my soul was pretty damaged by about then.
So, now I'm learning and seeing how important it is to be connected in the theater world, but I think I still have vestiges of PTSD. I'm not kidding. The idea of doing all that schmoozing, I'll honestly say, scares me. You'll notice that when I go to plays alone, I bring a book, so I've got somewhere to dive if it gets too weird for me.
But here's the happy ending. It's never gotten too weird. I am finding that people are accepting and friendly and genuinely seem to like me. (Please leave your Sally Field jokes at the door.) I'm finding that people do accept me for who I am, and are interested in the work I'm trying to accomplish. I've known all along that theater people are some of the most accepting, open people you can find. That age doesn't mean a hill of beans to them (unless of course their age precludes them from getting a part) and that young people in the theater, for the most part, are willing to work with someone twice their age without a second thought.
It seems all my life I've wanted to make the world a better place. It's a concept I applied to my freelance business, and it worked. The business was successful and I was happy. I'm not sure where all this going or rereading this post where this rant came from. It's just the mind and the creative process at work. Just another stretch of the path I'm going down.
Well, that ain't the way it goes.
What's I'm learning more than anything about the playwriting business is how much of it is a business. And how much I have to learn. There's TCG and Humana and the O'Neil Center and this fellowship and this conference and how it seems you have to know all this and be connected to all that. You just don't write a play and people recognize you for the genius you are and then they put it on and everyone loves it so much they come to the next play that you write. It may seem as if that's how it works, but that's only the outside looking in.
I've always been a writer, no doubt. But I've always been bad at networking. I've always been one of those people on the fringe, watching. Hell, I thought that's what writers did: They observed then wrote about the things they saw. And I always thought the social part was best left to the people whose time wasn't occupied with writing and art.
And I've never been good with groups, always much more comfortable one-on-one with people.
And I know so much of this is colored by all that time--years!--spent in the corporate world, trying to fit in with people who I really didn't fit in with. I truly was the round peg trying to fit into the square hole (and square it was, so surprising for what you might expect from a software company, so mainstream, so conservative, so mind-numbing boring, filled with people whose value system was based on a house in the suburbs and not rocking the boat.) But that all came later. There were places and people who I look back open with a great amount of fondness. At one point I worked in a department where now I realize we really were all family.
But the world changed and business changed along with it, until finally I found myself in some sort of twisted Fellini/Tarantino/Disney world. Which brings me to networking.
I would have to go to conferences (all of them in Orlando because that was the sensibility of the president and owner of the company) and I would spend about a week trying to blend into the wallpaper because no one, and I mean no one, had a bit of interest in spending time with me. It was high school all over again, except I actually liked high school. I guess, yes, in retrospect, I lived out my high school days in my thirties, dealing with people who, as Lou Reed sings, were doing things I gave up years ago. I went from having friends and working with people who respected me and the work I did, to being a veritable outcast. I'm not even sure how it happened.
I remember one particular incident--an evening soiree, I guess you could call it--where I was with some co-workers, people who I shared an office with and with whom I worked with everyday, who actually ditched me. Ditched me. I can't believe I just typed those words and that I can truthfully say that something that embarrassing happened to me as an adult. And the next day we all acted like it didn't happened. No, what the hell happened to you guys? Where'd you go? I thought you were going to wait for me? None of that. Just an obvious signal that we don't like you. That was just one of so many times when I just swallowed my pride and said I have to do this. Yeah. I know. The question is why did I have to do it, and the answer was I could telecommute most days of days a week and it paid good money, which meant I could take care of my kids while my then wife could work on her career. The things we do for our loved ones.
The company would put us up in these hotels dotted throughout the theme parks, actually pretty nice rooms, and I would dread it, because I would have these nightmares that were ferocious. One I remember with such vividness that even today I wonder if it was a dream or if it actually happened: I dreamed that storm troopers burst into my room, broke the door down, and I clearly heard gunshots, and the sound of ejected cartridges hitting the walls and the floor and furniture, and the smell of gunpowder. What part of the recesses of my psyche that came from I don't know, but it's pretty telling that my soul was pretty damaged by about then.
So, now I'm learning and seeing how important it is to be connected in the theater world, but I think I still have vestiges of PTSD. I'm not kidding. The idea of doing all that schmoozing, I'll honestly say, scares me. You'll notice that when I go to plays alone, I bring a book, so I've got somewhere to dive if it gets too weird for me.
But here's the happy ending. It's never gotten too weird. I am finding that people are accepting and friendly and genuinely seem to like me. (Please leave your Sally Field jokes at the door.) I'm finding that people do accept me for who I am, and are interested in the work I'm trying to accomplish. I've known all along that theater people are some of the most accepting, open people you can find. That age doesn't mean a hill of beans to them (unless of course their age precludes them from getting a part) and that young people in the theater, for the most part, are willing to work with someone twice their age without a second thought.
It seems all my life I've wanted to make the world a better place. It's a concept I applied to my freelance business, and it worked. The business was successful and I was happy. I'm not sure where all this going or rereading this post where this rant came from. It's just the mind and the creative process at work. Just another stretch of the path I'm going down.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
I saw some terrific theater...
...and you can argue with me that it wasn't. Some might say it really wasn't theater.
The actors weren't professional. It didn't take place in a theater. It wasn't the result of any theatrical process. In other words it happened in the "real world" by "real people" reacting "in the moment." But my experience, my reaction to it, was exactly what I would hope I'd have from a piece of theater.
It was produced just one time, and then it closed forever. It happened last Friday at a retirement party on the Cape at a country club. I didn't know hardly anyone there--just one or two people; I just a quiet observer, just like I'd be in the theater. A man was retiring--he was leaving a life he knew for 32 years--so the stakes were pretty high, at least a dramatic moment was ripe for the taking.
His co-workers put on skit, this wonderful piece of theater I'm referring to. They structured it. They actually realized they needed something to hang their skit on, and instead of concentrating on something classically Aristotelian--rising action, climax, denouement--they chose the alphabet. I loved it. Something we've known since our childhood. Something familiar. Something simple. Twenty-six scenes. Each "actor" was assigned a letter, and had to stand up at a staged area and talk about the retiree, and the script, their monologue, because that's what it was, was to be rooted in that letter.
When you give people, people who are not trained or comfortable in being in front of an audience, give them a microphone and force them in front of an audience, they are stripped bare. The are naked. And my reaction was I cared for each and everyone. I applauded their bravery, which in a small way spoke the something deep and meaningful in the human spirit, and also something that I think is waning in our society too. I wanted to hear what everyone had to say. I rooted for the ones who were uncomfortable. I enjoyed the more polished speeches. But even deeper, I was amazed but how much was revealed.
There was Mr. Popular. He was attractive to look at. Vivacious. Funny. Comfortable. And it was easy to see why people liked him. And he reveled in his place in this little community.
Conversely, there was the guy who was unpopular, and you can see how he struggled for the group's approval. Everything Mr. Popular wasn't--not comfortable in his own skin, unfunny, inarticulate, the group still accepted him and drew him in.
From A to Z I saw quiet people, smart but reserved people, the outsiders, and people who believed in sincerity and love, and weren't afraid to show it, because when you put people under pressure, and make no bones about it, these people were under pressure, people will resort to what they are most comfortable with, their core values and beliefs.
And there were two other characters. There was the man for whom all this was done: the retiree. who seemed at first so much outside of all this. Sometimes it seemed as if I wasn't so much at a retirement party as I was at a wake, and the participants were celebrating their life, their vitality, because they were going to go on living in the world they and the man had occupied. He was the one moving on.
And then there was me. The outside spectator, who thought about his own life, his community, if there even is one, and how long it's been since I've had a "real" job, one where the office was my life and characters like I was watching were a part of my life. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of his life the man spent in his career. Wow. And now it was over. They talked how he now had time to paddle his canoe and read his Boston Globe. Hmmm....
I wish I could write scenes like this, actors' pieces, that are simple and rely on the talents and instincts of people who can replicate this kind of world night after night. This is storytelling at its best, something I strive for but never seem to be able to get it quite right. It's frustrating as hell, to sit here at a keyboard day after day, then see it so genuinely and endearingly done by people who aren't even trying.
The actors weren't professional. It didn't take place in a theater. It wasn't the result of any theatrical process. In other words it happened in the "real world" by "real people" reacting "in the moment." But my experience, my reaction to it, was exactly what I would hope I'd have from a piece of theater.
It was produced just one time, and then it closed forever. It happened last Friday at a retirement party on the Cape at a country club. I didn't know hardly anyone there--just one or two people; I just a quiet observer, just like I'd be in the theater. A man was retiring--he was leaving a life he knew for 32 years--so the stakes were pretty high, at least a dramatic moment was ripe for the taking.
His co-workers put on skit, this wonderful piece of theater I'm referring to. They structured it. They actually realized they needed something to hang their skit on, and instead of concentrating on something classically Aristotelian--rising action, climax, denouement--they chose the alphabet. I loved it. Something we've known since our childhood. Something familiar. Something simple. Twenty-six scenes. Each "actor" was assigned a letter, and had to stand up at a staged area and talk about the retiree, and the script, their monologue, because that's what it was, was to be rooted in that letter.
When you give people, people who are not trained or comfortable in being in front of an audience, give them a microphone and force them in front of an audience, they are stripped bare. The are naked. And my reaction was I cared for each and everyone. I applauded their bravery, which in a small way spoke the something deep and meaningful in the human spirit, and also something that I think is waning in our society too. I wanted to hear what everyone had to say. I rooted for the ones who were uncomfortable. I enjoyed the more polished speeches. But even deeper, I was amazed but how much was revealed.
There was Mr. Popular. He was attractive to look at. Vivacious. Funny. Comfortable. And it was easy to see why people liked him. And he reveled in his place in this little community.
Conversely, there was the guy who was unpopular, and you can see how he struggled for the group's approval. Everything Mr. Popular wasn't--not comfortable in his own skin, unfunny, inarticulate, the group still accepted him and drew him in.
From A to Z I saw quiet people, smart but reserved people, the outsiders, and people who believed in sincerity and love, and weren't afraid to show it, because when you put people under pressure, and make no bones about it, these people were under pressure, people will resort to what they are most comfortable with, their core values and beliefs.
And there were two other characters. There was the man for whom all this was done: the retiree. who seemed at first so much outside of all this. Sometimes it seemed as if I wasn't so much at a retirement party as I was at a wake, and the participants were celebrating their life, their vitality, because they were going to go on living in the world they and the man had occupied. He was the one moving on.
And then there was me. The outside spectator, who thought about his own life, his community, if there even is one, and how long it's been since I've had a "real" job, one where the office was my life and characters like I was watching were a part of my life. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of his life the man spent in his career. Wow. And now it was over. They talked how he now had time to paddle his canoe and read his Boston Globe. Hmmm....
I wish I could write scenes like this, actors' pieces, that are simple and rely on the talents and instincts of people who can replicate this kind of world night after night. This is storytelling at its best, something I strive for but never seem to be able to get it quite right. It's frustrating as hell, to sit here at a keyboard day after day, then see it so genuinely and endearingly done by people who aren't even trying.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
I'm blowing off an audition because...
Maybe career-wise I'm shooting myself in the foot, but I'm blowing off an audition at a very well-known and connected casting agency this afternoon because...because...oh God, there are so many reasons, but first the simple one stupid reason I agreed to the audition is this:
I am flat broke and if cast I'd make $500 on the day of the shoot. File that under, I Was Young And Stupid And Needed The Money.
I have been cast in I think two industrials in my entire life. I used to go on auditions all the time and would get occasional callbacks, but rarely a job. This one was for a computer company (I'm always getting called in for white-guy office workers, in other words, a white guy in either a suit or business casual.) I don't even own a suit. I know it's acting, but just once can they call me in for something that's a bit more my type??
And I was looking at myself in the mirror today and yes, full confession here: I'm feeling old (well, I'm feeling maybe not old, but my age: it's not easy being in an environment where 99.9% of the people are over half your age and you're constantly reminded of your age, just like I imagine people of color are constantly reminded of the color of their skin. It's an interesting, eye-opening experience for me in our society.) And I just wasn't up to standing in this crowded hallway (yes, auditions are so glamorous; you're jammed cheek by jowl with actors in a hallway) with all these glamorous people. Yes, most are glamorous and so much better looking than me.
Maybe I'm better off just sticking to the theater and the stage, where I feel so much more comfortable.
So, looks were a big thing. I'm just not feeling too good about the way I look lately. Because of school I haven't been in the gym in months, I've been eating crap food just to stay alive so I'm out of shape and have put on weight, and reread the above paragraph about age if you want some more reasons.
And I was rehearsing the script this morning and I couldn't memorize it exactly, which is scary because for an actor if you can't remember your lines, well, that's a problem.
But it was so badly written. It was so badly written it was stupid and do you know how many times I've sat with corporate types who don't know the first thing about writing, who are schooled in writing or script-writing from what they've seen on television, or worse bad cinema? And every nerve in my body is screaming, this is stupid, I'm making an ass out of myself, we're all making asses out of ourselves, doesn't anyone care?
And you know what: the answer to that last question is either a) they really aren't aware they're making an ass out of themselves; or b) they don't care. What is the deal that self-respect is the first thing that goes out the window when it comes to money?
I have three plays I'm currently working on. All three are good writing. Do you know how I know it's good writing? Because I'm a good writer, and I'm so good at it that I can spot it a mile away. I have three plays that are in various stages of completion that need my undivided attention and for me to blow off a good portion of the day to do something I don't want to do and makes me feel like shit is just plain stupid.
Thanks for listening.
I am flat broke and if cast I'd make $500 on the day of the shoot. File that under, I Was Young And Stupid And Needed The Money.
I have been cast in I think two industrials in my entire life. I used to go on auditions all the time and would get occasional callbacks, but rarely a job. This one was for a computer company (I'm always getting called in for white-guy office workers, in other words, a white guy in either a suit or business casual.) I don't even own a suit. I know it's acting, but just once can they call me in for something that's a bit more my type??
And I was looking at myself in the mirror today and yes, full confession here: I'm feeling old (well, I'm feeling maybe not old, but my age: it's not easy being in an environment where 99.9% of the people are over half your age and you're constantly reminded of your age, just like I imagine people of color are constantly reminded of the color of their skin. It's an interesting, eye-opening experience for me in our society.) And I just wasn't up to standing in this crowded hallway (yes, auditions are so glamorous; you're jammed cheek by jowl with actors in a hallway) with all these glamorous people. Yes, most are glamorous and so much better looking than me.
Maybe I'm better off just sticking to the theater and the stage, where I feel so much more comfortable.
So, looks were a big thing. I'm just not feeling too good about the way I look lately. Because of school I haven't been in the gym in months, I've been eating crap food just to stay alive so I'm out of shape and have put on weight, and reread the above paragraph about age if you want some more reasons.
And I was rehearsing the script this morning and I couldn't memorize it exactly, which is scary because for an actor if you can't remember your lines, well, that's a problem.
But it was so badly written. It was so badly written it was stupid and do you know how many times I've sat with corporate types who don't know the first thing about writing, who are schooled in writing or script-writing from what they've seen on television, or worse bad cinema? And every nerve in my body is screaming, this is stupid, I'm making an ass out of myself, we're all making asses out of ourselves, doesn't anyone care?
And you know what: the answer to that last question is either a) they really aren't aware they're making an ass out of themselves; or b) they don't care. What is the deal that self-respect is the first thing that goes out the window when it comes to money?
I have three plays I'm currently working on. All three are good writing. Do you know how I know it's good writing? Because I'm a good writer, and I'm so good at it that I can spot it a mile away. I have three plays that are in various stages of completion that need my undivided attention and for me to blow off a good portion of the day to do something I don't want to do and makes me feel like shit is just plain stupid.
Thanks for listening.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Like A Man Freed From Prison
I'm reveling in all my free time. It's like after a show closes and you suddenly have your life back. I have time to do all the things I want to do, all the things, the crazy, weird things that make your life normal, or at least make you feel comfortable.
For one thing I can blog some more. It's not a big deal to write here, and it doesn't take up that much time, but it shows just how little time I did have that I couldn't post here. I was blogging on our contemporary drama classes blog, and I literally would use very waking minute to do something for class: read standing on the subway, take twenty minutes to open the laptop sitting on some couches outside class to write five more lines of dialogue in a play. It was all so crazy. I do like to be busy, but the past five months were overload.
Did I mention what I did when I finished? I opened a bottle of cream soda, sat on the floor of the living room (or what we call the music room) and played guitar for about three hours. I've been so out of practice and it's something that I just love to do to relax--a lot of times I'll work for a while and take a break for about ten minutes. If I'm working in the office instead of on the couch I'll usually have Alice, one of our acoustics, propped against the table.
And I've been doing all the crazy little things that a man just freed from prison might do. Today I'm making bread. Yesterday I was in Boston (to drop off the infamous dramaturgy dossier), went to the graduate school office and figured out how I was going to pay for the summer semester, and then I went to Daddy's Junky Music and played a bunch of guitars they have there. (Also bought a metronome, something one of my music teachers, Lloyd Thayer has been beating in my head to get. I bought it off the salesman who walked in the guitar room and said hi, and I said hi back in a way that said, leave me the hell alone. They know me there and he was decent enough to let me alone and not hassle me with pushing a guitar sale.) I went a few doors up and grabbed a hamburger at Wendy's; Wendy's hamburgers are a nasty vice I have. I met my daughter for dinner and I was able to talk and listen without having this other tape running in the background of my brain, thinking about dialogue and plot and stage directions and getting this paper written or planning this project. I'm picking up laundry and making grocery lists and I'm making sense out of our house. Sue works two jobs to keep us going, so I'm the one who manages the house and I actually like doing it. I've always been kind of domestic. I like to cook and I like working at home; the only time I ever liked working in an office was when I was first starting out and I thought I was hot shit. It didn't take me long to realize I was what is known as a self-starter (hardly anyone is; most people need the whip from the office to keep them motivated) and did much better on my own away from the stupidity of office politics and general office shenanigans. I always thought that was so much noise.
It'll will all start again in a week and a half when summer starts. I am so excited about the classes I'm taking, but for now I'm happy to just be able to noodle around the apartment.
For one thing I can blog some more. It's not a big deal to write here, and it doesn't take up that much time, but it shows just how little time I did have that I couldn't post here. I was blogging on our contemporary drama classes blog, and I literally would use very waking minute to do something for class: read standing on the subway, take twenty minutes to open the laptop sitting on some couches outside class to write five more lines of dialogue in a play. It was all so crazy. I do like to be busy, but the past five months were overload.
Did I mention what I did when I finished? I opened a bottle of cream soda, sat on the floor of the living room (or what we call the music room) and played guitar for about three hours. I've been so out of practice and it's something that I just love to do to relax--a lot of times I'll work for a while and take a break for about ten minutes. If I'm working in the office instead of on the couch I'll usually have Alice, one of our acoustics, propped against the table.
And I've been doing all the crazy little things that a man just freed from prison might do. Today I'm making bread. Yesterday I was in Boston (to drop off the infamous dramaturgy dossier), went to the graduate school office and figured out how I was going to pay for the summer semester, and then I went to Daddy's Junky Music and played a bunch of guitars they have there. (Also bought a metronome, something one of my music teachers, Lloyd Thayer has been beating in my head to get. I bought it off the salesman who walked in the guitar room and said hi, and I said hi back in a way that said, leave me the hell alone. They know me there and he was decent enough to let me alone and not hassle me with pushing a guitar sale.) I went a few doors up and grabbed a hamburger at Wendy's; Wendy's hamburgers are a nasty vice I have. I met my daughter for dinner and I was able to talk and listen without having this other tape running in the background of my brain, thinking about dialogue and plot and stage directions and getting this paper written or planning this project. I'm picking up laundry and making grocery lists and I'm making sense out of our house. Sue works two jobs to keep us going, so I'm the one who manages the house and I actually like doing it. I've always been kind of domestic. I like to cook and I like working at home; the only time I ever liked working in an office was when I was first starting out and I thought I was hot shit. It didn't take me long to realize I was what is known as a self-starter (hardly anyone is; most people need the whip from the office to keep them motivated) and did much better on my own away from the stupidity of office politics and general office shenanigans. I always thought that was so much noise.
It'll will all start again in a week and a half when summer starts. I am so excited about the classes I'm taking, but for now I'm happy to just be able to noodle around the apartment.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Life is too short...
Yesterday at exactly 2:00 p.m. (according to the clock on my MacBook, at least) the spring semester ended for me. Just a few minutes before that the notice on the printer came on saying the toner was low. After all those months, I quite suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A curious feeling; we've all felt that where you're crazy at work and suddenly it's Friday at 5:00 before your vacation.
BU has ruled every second of my life for about five months. Every waking second, and a lot of my sleeping ones, were concentrated on what I had to do, where I had to be (sometimes two places at once.) I knew this was going to be a challenging semester, even more challenging than the fall when I was acclimating myself to grad school then suddenly in the second week my back went out and my leg became paralyzed and I couldn't walk. I got through that and I knew I was going to get through the spring, too. I kept telling myself (and I'm bragging but I feel I have bragging rights), You are one of three people picked for the program. BU and Kate and I'm sure there were others on the selection committee who felt you could do the work, felt strong enough that you were given a scholarship and a teaching fellowship. So do the work.
I look back on the semester and think I finished one full-length play (of which I am so happy with and proud of) and started and finished a second full-length script. I've read I don't know how many plays and books, self-educated myself on the life and work of Sam Shepard, participated in amazing discussions in class about plays and playwriting and playwrights, something I am passionate about, taught a class of sophomores, again about something that I am greatly passionate about, and basically fulfilled the requirements for a pretty rigorous curriculum. I've grown immensely as a playwright and as a student and as a thinker and a theater creative artist. And what's funny is that, while I can see how far I've traveled, I can see how far the road continues on. And that discouraging and enticing all at once. There's so much more to learn, so much more to do. Life holds an incredible amount of opportunity and challenge. As they say, life is too short.
BU has ruled every second of my life for about five months. Every waking second, and a lot of my sleeping ones, were concentrated on what I had to do, where I had to be (sometimes two places at once.) I knew this was going to be a challenging semester, even more challenging than the fall when I was acclimating myself to grad school then suddenly in the second week my back went out and my leg became paralyzed and I couldn't walk. I got through that and I knew I was going to get through the spring, too. I kept telling myself (and I'm bragging but I feel I have bragging rights), You are one of three people picked for the program. BU and Kate and I'm sure there were others on the selection committee who felt you could do the work, felt strong enough that you were given a scholarship and a teaching fellowship. So do the work.
I look back on the semester and think I finished one full-length play (of which I am so happy with and proud of) and started and finished a second full-length script. I've read I don't know how many plays and books, self-educated myself on the life and work of Sam Shepard, participated in amazing discussions in class about plays and playwriting and playwrights, something I am passionate about, taught a class of sophomores, again about something that I am greatly passionate about, and basically fulfilled the requirements for a pretty rigorous curriculum. I've grown immensely as a playwright and as a student and as a thinker and a theater creative artist. And what's funny is that, while I can see how far I've traveled, I can see how far the road continues on. And that discouraging and enticing all at once. There's so much more to learn, so much more to do. Life holds an incredible amount of opportunity and challenge. As they say, life is too short.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Taking the time to put it down...
We're winding down the final days of the Spring semester at Boston University, and way back at the start I wanted to blog and write all about my experience and bring people along with me during this phase of my life. It's an exciting time. Most people my age are "positioning" themselves for retirement. Thinking about hanging on to that job for the homestretch, dreaming about the house in Florida and playing golf everyday (nothing sounds worse to me than that.) I'm not ready for the rocking chair, not by a long shot. I still have plays to write, mountains to climb, people to love. Still so many places I want to travel to. Every day is a new day, precious, full of opportunity to grow and learn.
Today is Saturday, and I'm teaching a workshop on writing ten-minute plays for Write Here, Write Now. It's a program for the LGBT community, and the reason for it is in their mission statement. I want to help anyone who wants to learn to write. This opportunity came to me from a grad student at Umass, and as soon as I got the email I knew it was something I wanted to do. I never thought about the obstacles facing someone who is LGBT. To me, writing is so free. You don't need a license, you don't even really need a degree. I proved that with my career. I just wrote and proved to people that I could do it and for a long while they paid me a lot of money to do it. You just do it. I'm so excited to hear what my students have to say today, those first ten minutes when people are telling why they are there, what they want to do.
I wish I had been able to find the time (and the energy) to put it all down, all the steps, the up and downs, the joys and the frustrations, the disappointments and the anxieties. It's all there, a very exciting life. I would have like to have been able to go back and read about it, when I finally am in the rocking chair. But I haven't even been writing in my own journal. I used to get up in the morning, pour my coffee (I'd set the coffee maker the night before) and go straight to the computer and write in my journal for about a half hour, still in that dream state. It's what I told my students to do, write in their journals every day, if not at a specific time every day, but I couldn't do it. Between the marathon of writing two full-length plays in less than a year, and the weekly sprints of writing a ten-minute play plus reading three or four plays a week and doing the background research on the play and the playwright, teaching, grading fifteen essays every week plus rewrite, seeing theater including staying out late on the weeknights because that's when the cheap tix are, and just thinking and planning for the long-term (what am I going to do when I graduate?) I didn't have the time or energy to set the coffee pot the night before.
I don't know how some people do it. Right now I'm following this guy who as I write this is on the north face of Everest. He's 69 years old and he's attempting two summits of Everest back to back. If that's not enough he's blogging. He's finding the time. Kind of puts me to shame, doesn't he.
Today is Saturday, and I'm teaching a workshop on writing ten-minute plays for Write Here, Write Now. It's a program for the LGBT community, and the reason for it is in their mission statement. I want to help anyone who wants to learn to write. This opportunity came to me from a grad student at Umass, and as soon as I got the email I knew it was something I wanted to do. I never thought about the obstacles facing someone who is LGBT. To me, writing is so free. You don't need a license, you don't even really need a degree. I proved that with my career. I just wrote and proved to people that I could do it and for a long while they paid me a lot of money to do it. You just do it. I'm so excited to hear what my students have to say today, those first ten minutes when people are telling why they are there, what they want to do.
I wish I had been able to find the time (and the energy) to put it all down, all the steps, the up and downs, the joys and the frustrations, the disappointments and the anxieties. It's all there, a very exciting life. I would have like to have been able to go back and read about it, when I finally am in the rocking chair. But I haven't even been writing in my own journal. I used to get up in the morning, pour my coffee (I'd set the coffee maker the night before) and go straight to the computer and write in my journal for about a half hour, still in that dream state. It's what I told my students to do, write in their journals every day, if not at a specific time every day, but I couldn't do it. Between the marathon of writing two full-length plays in less than a year, and the weekly sprints of writing a ten-minute play plus reading three or four plays a week and doing the background research on the play and the playwright, teaching, grading fifteen essays every week plus rewrite, seeing theater including staying out late on the weeknights because that's when the cheap tix are, and just thinking and planning for the long-term (what am I going to do when I graduate?) I didn't have the time or energy to set the coffee pot the night before.
I don't know how some people do it. Right now I'm following this guy who as I write this is on the north face of Everest. He's 69 years old and he's attempting two summits of Everest back to back. If that's not enough he's blogging. He's finding the time. Kind of puts me to shame, doesn't he.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Please read and rate my plays on Gorilla Tango Writers Source
I am absolutely horrible at self-promotion and networking, the two skills that someone in the creative arts should be able to do better than even their actual art.
But, I'm trying.
As many of you know, I've decided in my life to make a go at it. Finally to put down all the chips on the theater and doing some of my own writing. Something I've been wanting to do for a very long time.
And I seem to be doing pretty well at it. I got a scholarship (one of only four) to Boston University's playwriting program at Boston Playwrights' Theater. I had a very good first semester, learned a lot, wrote even more, had another of my ten-minute plays produced by the Provincetown Theater, and I'm pretty much in a good spot for the next semester. I was awarded a teaching fellowship, and in January will also be trying to impart my love of writing onto college sophomores.
But I need your help spreading the word.
There is a theater in Chicago called Gorilla Tango Theatre that produces a lot of original work. Just like BPT, it is a theater that is making it its business to cultivate new writers like me. Right now three of my plays are listed on their site for producers to look at for production. The more people view them, and rank them favorably, the longer my scripts will stay high on the list and visible.
I'm asking you to read the scripts and score them. Be honest; the only favor I'm asking for is that you read them and rate them. I don't want you to compromise any morals.
So, without explanation of intent or anything, here are the links to the scripts:
A Trip to New York
Norwood, Ohio
Love on the Rocks
Thanks in advance for your help and support.
But, I'm trying.
As many of you know, I've decided in my life to make a go at it. Finally to put down all the chips on the theater and doing some of my own writing. Something I've been wanting to do for a very long time.
And I seem to be doing pretty well at it. I got a scholarship (one of only four) to Boston University's playwriting program at Boston Playwrights' Theater. I had a very good first semester, learned a lot, wrote even more, had another of my ten-minute plays produced by the Provincetown Theater, and I'm pretty much in a good spot for the next semester. I was awarded a teaching fellowship, and in January will also be trying to impart my love of writing onto college sophomores.
But I need your help spreading the word.
There is a theater in Chicago called Gorilla Tango Theatre that produces a lot of original work. Just like BPT, it is a theater that is making it its business to cultivate new writers like me. Right now three of my plays are listed on their site for producers to look at for production. The more people view them, and rank them favorably, the longer my scripts will stay high on the list and visible.
I'm asking you to read the scripts and score them. Be honest; the only favor I'm asking for is that you read them and rate them. I don't want you to compromise any morals.
So, without explanation of intent or anything, here are the links to the scripts:
A Trip to New York
Norwood, Ohio
Love on the Rocks
Thanks in advance for your help and support.
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