Thanks for checking out the LAFPI “tag team” blog, below, handed off each week from one interesting female playwright to another.
Who are they? Click Here
Give Up?
Give Up?
When do you give up? Like when do you finally throw in the towel and call it quits? Being an artist is hard work these days. We face constant rejection at an alarming rate, oftentimes with no real understanding as to why we were rejected in the first place. Art centered establishments who have the power to change lives are underfunded, overworked and sometimes even corrupt. The world has broken and will a poem fix that? Can a play help it heal properly? Will the film adaptation evoke change in the necessary hearts and minds of those who can undo the very policies that broke the world in the first place? It’s all so strange being a creator these days. Our biggest competition has become AI. I wanna be like Dwight from The Office when he outsold the website in a single day. Like with hard work, focus and dedication, I too can beat technology. But what if I can’t. And to be honest, I don’t know if I even want to try. Like if a robot writes a play better than me? Or paint a picture better than Amy Sherald, what can I do to stop that? Where would I even start?
“I’m weary of the ways of the world”
How could I not be? I’m constantly (disarmed) distracted by social media. Doom scrolling content to make sense of it all but only confusing myself more. “Post something idiot” a voice in the back of my head that pressures me to contribute to the madness. Believing I got something to say that the people need to hear and that if I really wanted to, I could easily get in the creators fund. I’m smart. Funny. Passionate and creative enough right? I could go “viral” or whatever the kids are doing. “Why not?!” that same voice justifying why I spent two hours on social media calling it “research”. Still not posting what I want to. Just regurgitating what has already been said while believing I’m saying something different. Thinking that if I wanted to be heard, this is the way to do it. And if I’m not heard here, I’m not heard anywhere. So what’s the point in speaking at all?
Is there a point to defeat?
I’ve been overwhelmed lately with the feeling of wanting to be important. To be someone that people will listen to for real. I don’t know if it’s because I lost my parents but for some reason, the last few years I’ve been thinking heavy on my legacy, how I want to be known in the world when I’m no longer in it. How will I be known? As a failed artist or as an artist who stopped trying?
“I have hopes for myself”
But I lack hope in the rest of life. The world has broken (again and again) and I’m struggling to know how I can help fix it. I’m just a writer, which I know is no small feat. But when will I get to write about love and not war? Kindness and not hate? When will the human experience be soft for me (Black folks) instead of constant protest and creative efforts to fix a world I ain’t even break? I wrote out 31 of my favorite plays to read and all 31 centered gender, class and race. I wonder if Black people have ever gotten the stage to write about anything different?
This shit is hard. When do you give up? Take your losses and find a quiet lil life for yourself? Turn around and head yo ass back home? You tried it in the little city and couldn’t cut it. When do you give up? Find a better role to play?
I believe the fundamental job of an artist is to create. To make. To offer another perspective at something we’ve looked at before but never in that way. But damn, all these rejection letters got me feeling like I’m saying the same shit. Making me feel like there is nothing new to say because it’s all been said before since Black people’s work is only celebrated when it centers a limited range of topics (gender, race and class). Is it time to write about keeping myself and my plants alive?
“Struggling through the work is extremely important – more important to me than publishing it.”
Toni Morrison is always right. If this is the work, then giving up sometimes has to be a part of the process; at least contemplating it…deeply considering it.
But I’ll never be romantic about how hard this is. If it weren’t hard, would it be a struggle? But do we always have to struggle to do the work?
But I hope not.
Introducing the Collegiate New Play Development Conference
By Tiffany Antone
The Collegiate New Play Development Conference (CNPDC) is thrilled to announce its inaugural New Play Reading Series, taking place virtually from March 14 (starting at 9am CST) – March 28, 2025 (closing at 11:59pm CST). The event will feature three groundbreaking new plays: To Survive or To Live by Faith Jarrell, Falling Knives by Tira Palmquist, and Wunderkammer by Francesca Pazniokas.
CNPDC is a pioneering, inter-collegiate conference aimed at creating rolling campus premieres of new plays, connecting college students, faculty, and emerging theatre artists with the vibrant world of new play development. In an era where the future of American theatre is being actively shaped by new voices, CNPDC provides a unique opportunity for playwrights to experiment, grow, and refine their works without the pressures of commercial production. CNPDC is co-led by Tiffany Antone (Iowa State University), Kristi Good (Carnegie Mellon University), and LaRonika Thomas (Washington College).
“We believe higher education plays a vital role in not only preparing students for careers in theatre, but in shaping the future of the industry itself,” said Antone. “Our program offers a space where playwrights can truly develop their craft, free from the constraints of the traditional non-profit development model. Through our unique rolling premieres, we empower students and faculty to engage with the work of living playwrights in real-time and help bring new stories to life in innovative ways.”
CNPDC offers flexible participation for its member institutions, in order to ensure equity for the variety of programs across the country. “We recognize that some institutions will have writers in residence, while others will solicit scripts from outside their programs, and each institution should be able to use its available resources in a way that makes sense for the scope of its unique reading,” said Antone. “The more institutions that participate in the reading series, the more options they will have available to fit their future seasons.”
Registration is free and can be found HERE
The CNPDC inaugural New Play Reading Series will feature readings of the following works:
To Survive or To Live by Faith Jarrell.
Directed by Jai Basu
Synopsis: In the Bronx, four twenty-somethings find themselves entangled in a small-time crime syndicate, only to see their lives unravel when one of them mysteriously disappears. Upon her return, secrets emerge that threaten the fragile bond between friends. This drama explores themes of survival, loyalty, and the complicated realities of growing up in today’s world.
Why We’re Excited: This play is written by a senior theatre student, for students. To Survive or To Live takes on dark themes like economic insecurity, addiction, and friendship with surprising maturity and insight, offering a compelling glimpse into the struggles of young adulthood in the 21st century.
Falling Knives by Tira Palmquist
Directed by Sarah Hall
Synopsis: Charley, Kit, Rikki, Jesse, and Aiden are friends and co-workers, struggling to hold their lives together in the wake of personal tragedies. As they grapple with the sudden disappearance of their friend Madison, they find themselves questioning the emotional costs of the lives they’re trying to rebuild.
Why We’re Excited: Falling Knives merges the personal, the political, and the poetic to explore grief, loss, and healing. Engaging in work that can speak to the moment gives students an opportunity to meet audiences where they’re at. Tira Palmquist is an acclaimed playwright known for works such as Age of Bees and Two Degrees. Her plays have been produced at the Denver Center and Guthrie Theatre, among others.
Wunderkammer by Francesca Pazniokas
Directed by Tiffany Antone
Synopsis: A taxidermist’s world is turned upside down when his new assistant brings his creations back to life. Wunderkammer examines themes of identity, tribalism, and the blurred lines between human and animal, life and death. This play offers rich possibilities for design and physical theatre.
Why We’re Excited: With its focus on identity and made families, Wunderkammer offers a unique platform for theatrical experimentation. The play’s potential for puppetry is particularly exciting for CNPDC, as award-winning puppetry professor Amanda Petefish-Schrag is on hand to lend her expertise in this innovative design approach.
Call to Action
The CNPDC invites theatre practitioners in higher education and other professional theatre makers to virtually attend this exciting series of new play readings. Registration is now open at www.cnpdc.org. Attendance is free, but participants must be affiliated with a college or university to register.
Starting with Place: The Atomic Cafe
This month Center Theatre Group is sponsoring a community play reading of “Little Tokyo Goes Nuclear: A Play in Three Decades – Chapter One.” When Jesus Reyes, CTG’s Director of Learning and Community Partnerships, approached me about writing the piece, he wanted a play that was connected to the Atomic Café of Little Tokyo. The Atomic Café was an iconic Los Angeles landmark, mostly known as a punk rock haven in the seventies and eighties and since demolished to make way for the metro station. Referenced in several popular films and songs, the café was frequented by musicians the likes of David Bowie, Blondie, and Sid Vicious. This is largely attributed to Nancy Sekizawa, otherwise known as “Atomic Nancy”, who was the daughter of its owners and took over the café in the late seventies. Despite its notoriety during the eighties, the café had roots dating back to post war 1940s. As the daughter of a family-owned Japanese restaurant myself, I know all too well the challenges of keeping the greasy wheels of such an establishment open. I wondered how the Atomic Cafe—a gathering place and safe-haven for family and friends—could survive and serve its community for so long. Naturally, first and foremost, the quality of its comfort food must’ve been consistently good, in this case, the café’s chashu ramen and fried rice. But what other factors beyond that?
One of the features of the café that stood out for me in my research was a framed photo of the mushroom cloud, the nuclear explosion of the atomic bomb over Japan, and likely the inspiration for the name of the cafe. From the seed of this photo, two ideas came to mind. Firstly, America as a nation, undergirded by US Imperialism, is obsessed with war. It’s in the fabric of our DNA; the moment we end one war, it seems we are chomping at the bit for another. I thought about how no matter what decade of the 20th or 21st century we are in, the country is always reeling or healing from war. I wanted to explore the thread of war over the years and its impact on the Japanese American community. Secondly, while the very real atomic bomb was powerful and deadly, the word atomic has hyperbolic associations with adjectives like awe-inspiring, astonishing, and incredible. This was no doubt what made the café’s name so ingenious. The dichotomy of power—for good and for evil—almost as though Atomic Nancy were reclaiming what had been taken away from her people via ancestry if not literally from her own family. Further, it is largely known that punk rock was a subversive art form, one that represented people on the margins that were, in their own way, fighting systemic oppression and the rising tide of consumer capitalism and all the sanitization of expression that came along with it.
Also in my research, I came across filmmaker, Tad Nakamura’s short documentary Yellow Brotherhood, an organization of Asian Americans in Los Angeles who mobilized to help at-risk Asian American youth and steer them away from drugs and other negative influences. Too often the Asian American community is relegated as passive or apolitical, when in fact there are so many instances of political resistance and community power. While the Atomic Café is the setting to the play, I knew that I wanted the backdrop of Los Angeles and its political landscape to be a part of the story I told.
With these ideas simmering in my mind, I thought of how I could tell a story of place as though the place itself were the cradle, the character that watches over its children. The children grow up, and the place changes costume, but its bones and its heart remain the same. Ever since reading the entire August Wilson play cycle, I’ve always wanted to write a cycle of my own. At first, I had thought that I could write a 10-minute vignette to represent the characters of my play in each of the decades for as long as the restaurant was open. However, with the good counsel of Reyes and Sonia Desai, CTG’s new Director of Literary and Dramaturgy, I decided to give both the café and its characters some more breathing room to tell their stories. This has led me to the three-decade cycle, enough time to show what changes and what endures in a family touched by war and struggling to survive.
In this fictionalized story, Troy and Kei meet at the Atomic Café in 1965 amidst the Watts Riots. Troy is under pressure from his elders—his father and his aunt Yoshiko, owner of the café, to enlist in the army, but he has other ideas of how he wants to live his life. The two fall in love, despite their political differences and opposite personalities. When Kei’s brother leaves for the Vietnam War, she must step up her family responsibilities while wrestling with her own desires as she supports Troy who founds the Yellow Brotherhood, and later, organizes for the reparations movement for Japanese Americans incarcerated during WWII. The play, told in three chapters by decade, follows their growth from the 60s through the 80s. As the two help Yoshiko transform the Little Tokyo mainstay into what is known as the iconic Atomic Café, they grow into adulthood, shape their values, and find their voices.
I am so honored that CTG has provided the resources to bring together such a powerfully creative and talented team. Little Tokyo Goes Nuclear: A Play in Three Decades is directed by Fran de Leon and assistant directed by Desiree Fernandez, starring Tamlyn Tomita as Yoshiko, Thomas Winter as Troy, Mika Dyo as Kei, CJ Cruz as Don and Janet Song reading Stage Directions. Please join us for Part 1: The Sixties at the Malabar Library on Saturday, March 22 at 2pm, at the Robert Louis Stevenson Library on Tuesday, March 25 at 6pm, and at JANM (TBA).
The FPI Files: Laura Shamas Recounts Her Passion For “Four Women in Red”
I recently had the honor of speaking with playwright and LAFPI Co-Founder Laura Annawyn Shamas (Chickasaw Nation). She wrote Four Women In Red now playing at The Victory Theatre in Burbank.
The play is about four Indigenous women who are the survivors of their missing relatives and friends, who are devastated by the loss, and yet who continue to search for the missing against all odds of finding their loved ones. Laura said that it was hard writing the play because of the subject matter. But she is passionate about it and wants change and so she wrote a play. She realizes that it is hard on the actors and the director because they have to relive the trauma during the rehearsal process and performances. However, the director and the actors are willing to go to those places over and over in spite of the emotional toll doing the play has on them.
“The ending is something people have not seen before,” Laura said when we talked about the power and beauty of the production. The four women onstage create a memorable final stage picture of unity and determination … and defiance.
In the play, one of the female characters says, “It always falls to us.” It is the women who keep taking action. It is the women who support each other. It is the women who keep the hope alive. The four characters embody the strength and resilience of Native American Women, and the search for justice. Laura said that “these women” have been resisting systemic oppression for hundreds of years. They have been fighting against the oppression. What she means by “these women” are not only the four women in the play—but all Indigenous women.
She said, “Story is medicine. This is what is taught in the tribal way. This is what the tribes teach.”
Laura believes in the magic of theater and theater as an art form. She went on to say, “The playwright helps the audience to experience a temporary collective. There is an electrical, an alchemical response when sitting in the audience with others and watching actors perform on stage. A lived interaction. An aliveness. Something about the live interaction of experiencing the actors in real time – this is an active response. Not passive like watching a streaming video or a movie that takes place in the past, even if the story is in the present. Watching a play on stage is active – living and experiencing in the moment. We need this kind of collective experience now as a society. We need to cry and laugh together. This is what theater is about. This is the magic of theater. And we need the magic and the collective more than ever.”
With all the divisiveness and prejudices and everything else happening in the world, we do need the magic and the collective experience of live theater more than ever. As I sat in the audience and watched Four Women In Red, I felt as if I was experiencing the story and the journey of the characters in community. I felt the immediacy and aliveness of each moment. and I sensed the audience experiencing the same.
I asked Laura, what did she learn as a person as she wrote the play. Her answer encompassed more than the writing of the play, but the process and journey that began five years ago: “I will always need to keep learning. I will always try to keep learning. As an artist.”
Laura said she was at every rehearsal, wondering how to make it better, and that she changed words during the last of the rehearsals. She added, “I feel very humbled by the show. I still have a lot to learn about the topic.”
Laura hopes to bring attention to the important topic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives. She hopes to shine a light on the issue so that people will be aware of what is happening and to take action. And she says she is proud to have been a small part of the larger picture. “If some change happens, no matter how small, if someone takes action because they saw the play, then this five-year journey will be worth it.”
“My hope is that once they see the play, they can’t stop thinking about the issue – the issue of missing native women,” Laura continued.
The systemic oppression Native women experience is another issue that people need to bring attention and take action to in order for change to happen. “A chorus of voices to bring real action is what is needed now, “ she said.
I said that, to me, the ending of the play is a call to action. She thanked me for seeing that. She emphasized that, “There are a few calls to actions in the play.”
Laura suggested a few ways that we can help bring awareness and to take action:
- Call your Representative and ask what they are doing about the issue.
- Go to National Indigenous Women’s Resource Center (NIWRC) website and donate. The website is https://www.niwrc.org
- Be part of a search for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women.
During opening weekend, Tayana Viscarra (Piro-Tewa Pueblo, Apache, Kumiai, European) and Norm Sands (Apache, Yaqui, European), co-founders and leaders of Way of the Sacred Mountain, an indigenous-led, grassroots partnership providing healing and support for families and communities affected by Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW), talked to the audience after the performance. They talked about conducting searches, and they may be a place to find how to be part of a search. Their website is https://www.wayofthesacredmountain.org
At the end of our dialogue, Laura offered this advice to playwrights: “Write something you care about. Write what you’re passionate about. What is it you care most about and what do you want to tell the audience about?”
I thought of the plays that I’m writing and how I’m passionate about them and how I love the characters and how they are alive within my life and how I’m alive with their lives. And Laura’s advice makes me even more determined to finish the plays – even though one may always be working on the play, according to Laura – and get it out into the world.
“Four Women In Red” by Laura Annawyn Shamas (Chickasaw Nation), Directed by Jeanette Harrison (Descendent of the Onondaga Nation), Produced by Maria Gobetti runs through March 23, Friday and Saturday at 8:00pm and Sunday at 4:00pm, at The Victory Theatre Center in Burbank. For tickets call (818) 841-5421 or visit thevictorytheatrecenter.org.
Connecting Meaningfully
I think that worry is an unhealthy habit. I am not immune to this disease. I enjoy living alone and being independent, but I also have anxiety when I feel the burden of isolation when I’m not connected meaningfully to others. This is why it is important to build a community that fulfills that emptiness from lack of purpose. My purpose has been to teach health and wellness through meditation, yoga and pilates, and also writing.
The psychology of worry is the need to control and maintain homeostasis. But also, maintaining this state of changelessness can be a cause of worry that can lead to depression. From my own experience, as my life unfolds to living without a mate to share my life with, there’s a deep emotional and psychological burden of finding meaning in the simple things. I miss the anticipation and joy of preparing a meal to be shared with someone who also appreciates this ritual.
The ritual begins with planning. There there is the execution. I like shopping for the ingredients, and choosing to buy the “best” of whatever the purse strings can afford. Maybe even splurging a little extra for a more expensive bottle of wine or whatever it is that can be elevated as an offering to the beloved. And on the ritual goes, until the gathering at the table, excited not so much over the food and wine, but the meal in itself and what it represents – “Wholiness” equating to Whole Plus Holiness. The joining together creates a holy completeness, a union, the yoga, the breaking of the bread, communion.
Wholiness = Whole + Holiness
When I started teaching yoga, I offered a weekly class focused on seniors. It was hosted by the library and the event was well attended. Many attendees appreciated the opportunity to exercise, move mindfully and learn how to practice yoga. After the 50 minute class there was the opportunity for the participants to have tea, coffee, cookies and pastries. For the attendees the highlight of the event was”coming together”. It brought a moment of joy and light in their day, and some even said for the week. As a yoga teacher, when given the permission to touch to adjust someone’s pose, I feel a melting surrender that almost whispers “Thank You.” A loving touch is healing.
The meaningful connection with another human being helps dissolve that anxiety of loneliness. Truly, I believe that when we can connect heart to heart with another being regardless of the circumstances (the ideal being a celebration festooned with flowers, a candle and a meal), the “coming together” alleviates the habit of worry. My main meaningful relationship at home is my senior dog, two cats and ten chickens. Beyond the household, I have my work as a yoga-pilates instructor and my writing community. I confess that I need to nurture my writing community more this year.
I haven’t fulfilled my duty to write daily or more frequently for my blog week, because my dog, Goliath, underwent a serious dental surgery. It started with a molar abscess that needed surgery to remove a bad tooth. Before the surgery, I was fraught with worry that she would not wake up from the anesthesia. She made it and she’s now recovering with a healthy appetite for food and life.
As I write now, I also recognize that I “freeze” when I’m going through something heavy. I simply cannot write. I need to work on this too. The “freezing” is a form of worry.
Thank you for reading and thank you for the opportunity to connect with you.
Making Sense
The stories in the news just get more bizarre and entertaining lately… and in trying to make sense of it all, I find meditation to be a sure cure.
On December 18, 2024, a popular YouTuber and ‘Flat Earther’, Jeran Campanella, travelled from California to Antartica and saw the sun does not rise in the Antartica during the summer in the southern hemisphere.
He said “Sometimes you are wrong in life. I thought there was no 24-hour sun…“
At the end of the interview, he was very humble to say “I realise that I’ll be called a shill for just saying that and you know what, if you’re a shill for being honest so be it – I honestly believed there was no 24-hour sun.”
This could be earth shattering news for some Flat Earthers, but it does not mean it’s the end of the Flat Earth society. Deep in the human psyche there are belief systems that are so hard to root out, because it’s embedded in the heart. Would it be easier to believe the earth is flat than to deny the love in our hearts?
I’ve experienced despair and deep sadness. Who hasn’t? I pause and introspect if sometimes I am projecting my feelings and belief out there, and not really seeing reality for what it is. What makes me hang on to a belief system that I willfully blind myself to the truth? Is it that it’s easier to hang on than it is harder to let go?
There was a recent Tik Tok video, made by Sarah Roberts, that had gone viral. Before the exclusive she gave to TMZ on February 26, the storyline in the media was Sarah Roberts called for the assassination of Elon Musk and confessed that she had not filed taxes for the past eight years. In the video I witnessed a lot of pain her eyes. There are some things that makes the expression “the bell cannot be unrung” to ring poignantly. “Unring the bell”, is an analogy used in law that suggests the difficulty of forgetting information once it is known (Wikipedia). In my imagination, Sarah Roberts had tattooed “psychopath” on her forehead.
The TMZ headline read “TikToker I WAS NEVER GOING TO KILL ELON MUSK… And My Taxes are Paid!!!” and the gist of the article is her confession of regret for “trying to make stupid jokes on the Internet,” adding, “I thought it was protected under free speech but I certainly learned my lesson.”
Comparing the thought process behind Jeran Campanella and Sarah Roberts on their belief systems is a stretch, but the common thread is a transformation of consciousness. There is humility in Jeran’s words and the essence is palpable in its expression. Either Sarah Roberts is a really good actor or she truly believed and felt what she expressed in that TikTok video. Having FAFO’ed, she tried to salvage a joke that went too far and now it’s hard to take seriously anything she says.
13 He replied, “Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be pulled up by the roots. 14 Leave them; they are blind guides.[d] If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit.”
15 Peter said, “Explain the parable to us.”
16 “Are you still so dull?” Jesus asked them. 17 “Don’t you see that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body? 18 But the things that come out of a person’s mouth come from the heart, and these defile them. 19 For out of the heart come evil thoughts—murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. 20 These are what defile a person; but eating with unwashed hands does not defile them.”
So I’m trying to make sense of the whirl wind of events, and I had the aha moment that the mind will go into an infinite loop to try to make sense of it… like asking “Deep Thought” for the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything and the answer is 42. (The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy).
The mind does not have the answer to make sense of it all. It’s so much deeper than that. Consciousness is not limited to the mind. We are all consciousness, and we’re on different planes of consciousness moment to moment. When we pause and notice who is the thinker, we get a glimpse of the Seer watching the unfolding of dance and play of light and shadows.
Below is an excerpt from Swami Muktananda’s Life is a play of Light and Shadows
What was real yesterday is unreal today, and what is real now will be unreal tomorrow, because tomorrow it will no longer exist. Life is the extraordinary play of the actor of the universe, the Self. It is mystery, a story told by a grandmother, real, yet without foundation. In this world, day becomes night and night becomes day. Joy turns into grief and grief turns into joy.
Virtue turns into sin and sin turns into virtue. Birth becomes death and death becomes birth. Success become failure and failure becomes success. One person’s victory is another defeat. One person’s interest is another’s indifference. One person’s religion is another’s irreligion. The world constantly changes.
The 24 hour sun is akin to the ever-seeing Self. The Self is always there, concealed only by ever changing weather patterns. Recognize that weather is caused by the sun, originated in the Self.
Old Friends
by Kitty Felde
I think the last musical I saw was my niece’s high school production of “Beauty and the Beast.” Back in the 80’s, my best friend Julie was going to Shakespeare school in NYC and we’d line up for hours at TKTS for anything affordable. Unfortunately, my husband’s not a fan of people singing in the middle of a story, so I’m always looking for a buddy to join me for a musical.
Last night, I took myself out for a date to see the Stephen Sondheim tribute show “Old Friends.”
It was packed with veteran Broadway singers and actors who often outshone the two legendary stars Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga. The show is headed to Broadway after a run in London’s West End and it looks like it: polished, fantastic costumes, clever set, well directed, terrific orchestra. Cameron Mackintosh produced it. I was surprised that there was little dance since it was directed by the fabulous choreographer Matthew Bourne.
I loved it, even though the show couldn’t decide whether it was a concert of Sondheim’s greatest hits, or a series of favorite scenes from favorite shows.
Which brings me back to the power of story.
The most powerful bits were the snapshots of past plays. There was a long sequence from “Sweeney Todd” which introduces the Demon Barber of Fleet Street as he and his unfortunate customer sing “Pretty Women” all the way to Mrs. Lovett peddling meat pies made of lawyers and priests. “West Side Story” was summed up in a powerful balcony/mean streets scene performing “Tonight.” It wasn’t just Sondheim’s incredible music and lyrics carrying us away: it was the story the music was telling.
We all want a story, with or without music. We want to carry those characters around in our heads and hearts. We care what happens to them. We want to root for them. Or cheer when they’re killed off.
We are blessed to be writers, creating those characters and those stories – imaginary beings that will live in the hearts and minds of others, whether in a Broadway house or a storefront theatre on a night when the cast outnumbers the audience.
Don’t be discouraged. Go back to your laptop. Sharpen that number two pencil. Go make magic.
Kitty Felde, in addition to writing plays, is the author of The Fina Mendoza Mysteries series of novels for young readers that introduce civics to kids. Her latest title Snake in the Grass” about the bitter partisanship in Washington, DC these days will be published April 1, 2025 by Chesapeake Press.
Ms. Patricia Diann Mckenna
I didn’t know where to begin. How do you speak of someone you love who has crossed over into the next realm? How do you honor a life that touched you so deeply, even if your time together was far too quick?
After forty days it still feels fresh even if the state, country, and the world have seemed to move on. There is this huge hole left in the city that will not be so easily healed for many not only lost their homes but family members as well. We lost Ms. Pat to the Eaton fire that destroyed not only her home but 9,413 homes, businesses, and tons of special buildings across Altadena and Pasadena.
I loved Ms. Pat from the very first moment our paths crossed. She was a tall, bold force of nature—unapologetically honest and refreshingly direct, even when the truth stung. Witty, clever, and laced with delicious sarcasm, she possessed a refined taste in everything from art to life itself. Ms. Pat was fiercely original; she lived by her own thoughts, beliefs, and ideals, never swayed by the crowd.
I was just a young girl navigating my second or third year in L.A. when I first met her in the LACC costume shop, a sacred space where dreams and chaos mingled under the watchful eye of theatre legend Naila Aladdin-Sanders. There, amidst costumes and endless creative energy, Ms. Pat wasn’t just a teacher—she was a mentor, a friend, a guiding light. In that vibrant, often wild space, she wore many hats: mother, auntie, and steward of time. With a heart full of compassion, she fed us when our bodies needed it—she nourished our souls. Whether it was slipping a little cash into our hands, offering a ride, or simply sharing her wisdom, every act was delivered with precision, intention, and unconditional love.
Our conversations were endless and free, spanning theatre, art, fashion, her husband Tom, history, and the power of books. In a new city where meaningful connection can be rare, I found in Ms. Pat a kindred spirit—someone who made intellectual exploration feel like a grand adventure. I absorbed every word, and every idea, knowing I was in the presence of a woman who truly understood the beauty of learning and living boldly. When she spoke you listened.
There were times in theatre school when life threatened to break me—when eviction loomed, my belongings became a makeshift set on the school’s main stage, and homelessness felt inevitable. In those moments, Ms. Pat was my sanctuary. She took me under her wing: first finding me an apartment, then furnishing it with the warmth and coziness of home. When a roommate’s behavior turned dangerous in the dead of night, I called her, and without hesitation, she scooped me up, brought me safely to her home, and gave me refuge. For over a year, I lived with Ms. Pat in Altadena, sharing in both our struggles and our triumphs. Through every hardship, she was a constant beacon of unconditional love, fueling my courage and nurturing my passion for the arts.
Ms. Pat was the light in our darkest times—a fearless advocate for every artist caught between dreams and the unknown. I wish with every fiber of my being, that I could have saved her, just as she saved me so many times over. I hope she knows how deeply she was loved, how fiercely she was respected, and how her legacy will forever guide our hearts and minds. The memories of our time together are etched in my bones, inspiring me to be as audacious, as bold, and as unyielding in my truth as she was.
In remembering Ms. Patricia Diann McKenna, I honor not just a teacher, but an indomitable spirit—a woman who lived, loved, and dared to be unapologetically herself. Ms. Pat was here.
Too Much
by Chelsea Sutton
I was lamenting to a friend just earlier today that I don’t think my voice has a place within American Theatre.
I tend to be too strange or impossible for many theatres. And too normie, too traditional for others. I’m solidly in that “too weird” or “too much” category that does not qualify me for popular entertainment, and definitely doesn’t fit me into the artistic elite.
I was meeting folks for the first time at a residency recently, and I mentioned going to Meow Wolf — an experience I actually really love, especially the one in Santa Fe. And the experimental artist I was speaking with immediately shut it down as commercial, called it “dumb” and the precursor to things like the Ice Cream Museum. I felt shame almost immediately. This was a clear moment where I was able to place myself in the rankings at this residency — I’m too dumb to ever be a serious artist, too gullible by pop entertainment and selfie museums.
I’m not enough of an “artist” to be taken seriously but I’m also not enough of a pop artist to ever make any money.
I think there is room for all kinds of aesthetics and styles in the American Theatre. And I’ve been wrestling with my place in it for a long time.
But then of course the NEA and the Kennedy Center may be falling. The few national establishments that dictate what theatre is in this country will be narrowing their scope to only pieces about how great the Constitution is, etc. Wanting only plays that uphold ideals, and never question them.
We have such a long fight ahead. And so much of the turmoil over the last 10 years has sometimes made it seem like this art stuff doesn’t matter, when people are dying and infrastructure is crumbling.
And maybe on some level it doesn’t. But then you threaten our Kennedy Centers, and the possibility — nay, the reality — of a real, actual oppression of art. Of our voices. And it is terrifying. And it also makes the art seem even more important.
And we need all of us. The experimental, the popular, the weird ones in the middle to resist. Because rather than trying to fit into the American Theatre, we’re going to have to build a new one. And American Theatre 2.0.
The taste of fire
The view from my house on Tuesday, January 7, 2025
by Cynthia Wands
January 11, 2025
It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m writing this while I’m watching the smoke from the Palisades Fire continue to menace the skyline. I’ve been on evacuation alert since Tuesday, when I packed up my car, reassured the cat (Ted) that we’re in this together, and that we’ll leave once I’m given a Mandatory Evacuation Order. It’s been four days of trying to remain calm and organized during the power outages, the buzz of evacuation alerts, and the sleepless nights hunched over the phone, tracking the Watch Duty fire maps.
Dear friends have lost everything, their house burned to the ground that Tuesday night. And so did thousands of their neighbors. The images of the neighborhoods charred beyond recognition look like the aftermath of the bombings in Dresden during World War Two.
And there’s a lot in this disaster that reminds me of what war might be like: the constant awareness that at any moment your life could be shattered; knowing that other lives have already been ravaged; there’s the unexpected roar of helicopters, and the shock of the hurricane winds that slammed through that dark night; the occasional burst of acrid smoke that make your eyes water; and the scent of burnt everything when you step outside to see if the fire is on the ridge line.
You get jumpy. And bursts of emotion can surprise you. Last night a friend was online with me as we were both yelling at the newscasters ON THE TELEVISION. I know. I know they can’t hear us, but it was the only yelling we could do. HOW MANY HELICOPTERS ARE ON THEIR WAY? WHERE’S THE FIRE? STOP THE STAMMERING! WHERE? WHERE IS IT? STOP IT!
That kind of thing. You’re so helpless that the only sense of engagement is yelling at the television. At least the power was on.
I’m thinking that these fires, and the disaster of these fires, will change the stories we tell about our life here in Los Angeles. We’ve had other fires, and earthquakes, and riots. And mudslides. But this disaster feels differently for me – its about the four elements: fire, air, water, earth. Its about home and refuge and community.
It’s also about the thousand little things we live with, the thousands of decisions we make about the things in our life. When I was packing up the car in case I needed to evacuate, I had to evaluate the value of any item I would carry away with me. And that’s when the story of my life here became a kind of inventory – what do you take with you when you have to leave everything else behind? After I packed up the legal documents, the computer, the medicines, cat treats, my grandmother’s quilt, Eric’s artwork – then I paused. Could I fit the artwork on the walls in the car? Family portraits? Some of it would fit. But could I fit the big pieces of artwork, the big paintings, the six foot mannequin, the six panel art screen – maybe not. The family china? The books? Oh, the many books – do I have time to go through my favorite books? Maybe I’d get more books. Later.
And that’s when the story became a thousand different stories. The mosaic of my life here: when I lived here with Eric, as I’ve lived here without him, the dinner parties with the fancy wine glasses. I felt every object asking “Would you take me?”
In the end, I took what I could. I hope I’ll be able to unpack it all when the evacuation alerts end, and the air is cleared of smoke, and the bits of the mosaic of lives burnt by fire finds a new pattern.
Just now I stepped outside to watch the trees thrash around in the winds. The air tasted like fire.
