Thanks for checking out the LAFPI “tag team” blog, below, handed off each week from one interesting female playwright to another.
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Prana and the 9th Commandment
My clearest thinking often happens during a long hot shower. I suppose the reason is I’m in a relaxed state. First, I am giving thanks to the thousands of years of civilization that has produced the design and infrastructure that gives me access to flowing clean water (hot and cold and lots of it.) The water is pure and healing.
Prana, the life force, in me must be honored with every breath.
Each breath is an exhale and inhale. I purposefully ordered the breath as the exhale and inhale, because the starting point is emptiness. I need to be emptied before I can allow for the intake of air.
I read this somewhere and it’s stuck with me and I use it, especially when I teach yin yoga. “There are only two breaths that matter. The last breath and the breath before the last one.” This makes me pause and really recognize the fragility of life and its breadth and depth between those two moments.
I’ve been steeping in this practice to honor the prana in me by not telling a lie. Note “steeping”, and that means it’s work in progress. The journey started a long time ago. Like most people, this journey started in childhood. “Don’t lie,” or “Tell the truth”, have been indoctrinated in me since I can’t remember anymore, because I’m that old. I do remember watching “The Ten Commandments” (1956 movie directed by Cecil B. DeMille) as a child every Lent season. My parents, especially my mother, observed Lent strictly. We fasted and abstained from eating meat. She prepared delicious substitutes of sweetened garbanzo beans and silky creamy tofu with sago in sugary brown sauce. Those are my memories of Lent.
The way Catholicism was drummed into me felt dry. I earnestly tried to understand and live it heart-fully by considering a vocation as a nun. My high school yearbook shows Mother Teresa as someone I aspired to be. But, after a deep and sorrowful soul searching I didn’t become a nun.
After 30 plus years of absence I’ve returned to my Catholic tradition, and it’s been a joyful and lively return like the parable of the Prodigal Son. Now, I am re-absorbing it with an adult mind. My take on the ninth commandment of “Do not lie” (Exodus 20:16 ) is to honor the prana. The breath is a manifestation of the prana. I use my breath to express a word or a phrase. If I tell a lie then I am not honoring my prana.
Another view, and related to honoring the prana is the virtue of Ahimsa that means “non-violence”.
The pellets of tempered water washes over me, my head bowed under the shower.
Primum non nocere is a Latin phrase that means “first, do no harm”. In Wikipedia this text is part of the Hippocratic Oath. My primary care physician and I had a philosophical conversation about transgender operation and how this practice violates the Hippocratic Oath. Yes, “first, do no harm” has been debated on both sides of those for and those against gender affirming operations. In my small circle of influence, limited to my life, I try to practice this, though sometimes I’ve gotten the boomerang effect of “no good deed goes unpunished.”
My circle of influence as limited to me is do no harm by abstaining from lying so that I honor my prana and live as authentically as possible in every moment.
The FPI Files: A Stage for Remembrance – “The Delicate Tears of the Waning Moon”
I’ve recently become an avid adversary of statues.
Not all of them. The ones dedicated to the human form, like the Greek statues that live in the Louvre, can stay for now. I only play devil’s advocate against the ones that memorialize war heroes (or criminals, depending on who you ask) and historical figures who have ruined other people’s histories.
You could say that I hold a grudge against statues. When dozens of statues were defaced & dismounted in 2020, including one of Robert E. Lee, I was among the many that were happy to see them go. I am deeply unsettled by the fact that we are currently living in a time when plastering your face on the side of a mountain, your name on the top of a building, or the country’s name on a body of water is the greatest achievement of our government system. Frankly, it’s become childish. It takes me back to one of my earliest memories, when my younger sister learned how to spell her name and wrote it on every inch of our bedroom furniture. What is the point of memorializing someone if they inflict pain on more communities than they do pride?
Thankfully, the statues can’t argue back with me because they are, in fact, statues.
I am only half-joking about this sentiment. But statues have been at the forefront of my mind lately. And each time, I find myself often questioning, “Who deserves to be remembered well? To be memorialized forever? Who gets to decide that? How much harm constitutes a legacy of infamy? When we memorialize someone or something that has damaged more lives than repaired them, what does that say about us?”
But there are people who deserve to be remembered: champions of the suffering, the marginalized, the most vulnerable of us. And they rarely ever are. There is such power in speaking their names and their stories. The Delicate Tears of the Waning Moon by Rebeca Alemán of Water People Theater brings two names to the forefront, stories that many of us likely haven’t heard before, but should have: Miroslava Breach and Anabel Flores.
This production is a monument to them and to all women who experience violence at the hands of corrupt governments. Miroslava Breach and Anabel Flores, presente.
I was able to send some questions to the playwright of The Delicate Tears of the Waning Moon, Rebeca Alemán (who also performs in the production), to learn more about the inspiration behind bringing these important histories onto the stage and the piece’s evolution, from its years across the country with Water People Theater, its run at Latino Theater Company‘s 2024 Encuentro festival, to now.
Carolina Pilar Xique: This play is based on real events. Can you briefly summarize the story, or stories, that inspired you to write this piece? Particularly, the stories of Miroslava Breach and Anabel Flores?
Rebeca Alemán: When I learned the devastating stories of Miroslava Breach and Anabel Flores, two Mexican journalists murdered simply for telling the truth and defending human rights, I felt a deep responsibility to respond through what I know best: theater. Their stories have stayed with me. Miroslava’s son was just eight years old; Anabel’s baby was only two weeks old when she was taken. As my character Paulina says in the play, “How could I leave them alone? I couldn’t.”
They were women. They were mothers. They were journalists doing their job, and they were killed for it. That is a brutal violation of human rights.
Carolina: These stories are so important to tell. How do you navigate the responsibility of representing real tragedies through art while still creating a powerful and engaging narrative?
Rebeca: Every day I ask myself what needs to change, what must be heard, what cannot and must not be forgotten. What needs to be remembered. Theater is an extraordinarily powerful space, and we have a responsibility to use it with intention and integrity. Since the founding of Water People Theater, we have brought stories to the stage that are deeply committed to human rights, stories that move, provoke and invite reflection. When art comes from a true commitment to humanity, it can bring us together, inspire empathy and solidarity, and speak out for human rights.
Carolina: The play was produced in Chicago, New York, and now it’s coming back to Los Angeles. What is unique about this production, cast and interpretation of the story?
Rebeca: I would say what truly makes this production unique is its deeply human approach, which has grown and evolved with each staging. The story is told from the perspective of what it means – on a human level – for a journalist – a woman – to become a victim of an attack simply for exposing corruption. A woman who suffers extreme violence – losing her mother, her memory, her history, and her past. Throughout the play, Paulina fights to recover her memory while Rodrigo, her friend, stays by her side every step of the way, supporting her in her pursuit of justice. Each city has brought its own unique energy to the characters’ journey and the play itself.
Carolina: What has it been like to bring The Delicate Tears of the Waning Moon back to the Latino Theater Company, but for a longer run after presenting it at Encuentro? Will audiences see anything new they may not have seen in last year’s run?
Rebeca: We are deeply grateful for the opportunity to return to Los Angeles with this play. Our experience at the Encuentro festival was unforgettable, and this invitation to come back, now on a larger stage with expanded possibilities, is a meaningful recognition of the work of the entire team. As both writer and actress, it is incredibly rewarding to witness how the play continues to evolve, revealing new layers. Audiences will experience a renewed staging that remains faithful to the spirit and intimacy of the original, while incorporating new projections, scenic elements and an even stronger emotional connection between the characters. All of this allows the story to resonate more deeply with the audience.
Carolina: Is there a particular line or moment in the play that you feel encapsulates its core message or emotional truth?
Rebeca: “There are so many things that aren’t reported because some journalists keep quiet and because media outlets bury other cases. And then there are the people, the poor people who don’t search for justice because they’re afraid.” – Paulina
The Delicate Tears of the Waning Moon, written by Rebeca Alemán and directed by Iraida Tapias, plays Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m. and Sundays at 4 p.m. at the Los Angeles Theatre Centerthrough May 25. For more information and to purchase tickets, call (call (213) 489-0994 or go to latinotheaterco.org.
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Who Are Your Fans?
by Kitty Felde
There’s a relief pitcher in Washington D.C. with a trio of unlikely fans.
A trio of teens from Louisville decided to root for Washington National right-hander Derek Law as a result of a glitch in a video game. (Too complicated to explain the video game part of the story: read the article if you really want to know about “Real 99’s” and the peculiar fantasy baseball games.)
The story of their fandom and the face-to-face meeting with the object of their devotion touched my heart – and that pitcher reminded me of us as writers.
Law is what’s called a “middle reliever,” a major league pitcher who comes in from the bullpen in the middle of a game. His job is to keep too many runs from scoring until the late innings when the superstar closer comes in to finish off the game and secure the win.
Middle relievers mostly labor in obscurity. Nobody gives them a nickname like “The Vulture” or “The Mad Hungarian” or “The Monster.” Half the stadium has to check the roster to make sure they’re spelling his name right in their scorebook. But middle relievers put in the hard work every single day, throwing 100 mile per hour pitches to coaches, stretching and running around in the outfield before every game, getting ready mentally to come in with three men on base and now outs, whether or not they are called upon to show off their stuff.. Mostly, they sit and wait.
Just like writers.
So when three teenagers showed up at a game in Cincinnati between the Reds and the Washington Nationals wearing Derek Law jerseys, the reliever took notice. He sent them tickets, autographed every item they handed to him, and put his hat over his heart to show his appreciation. Mr. Anonymous had finally found his people.
I had a similar experience last weekend when a 4th grade reading group invited me over to talk to them about my Fina Mendoza Mysteries.
These kids somehow stumbled across my book series about the adventures of the 10-year-old daughter of a congressman from California who solves puzzles inside the U.S. Capitol. Their mom contacted me to tell me how much they liked my books. Then, they showed up en masse at a bookstore where I did an event. Two of them dropped by my booth at the LA Times Festival of Books last month for autographs and pictures, tearfully telling me that I was
“their favorite writer in the whole, wide world.” 
And finally, I was invited over one Sunday afternoon for donuts and cucumber slices to answer all of their questions about Fina. I felt like a star. But more importantly, I felt like the small pebble I’d dropped into the pond, trying to educate kids about American democracy through writing about Fina Mendoza and her adventures on Capitol Hill, had splashed on a distant shore. The books had made a difference in the lives of kids. Not a nation of children. Yet. But this handful of fans believed in me.
None of us may win the Pulitzer for Drama or see our latest play on Broadway. That doesn’t mean our work isn’t important to the world. It is.
Just because “The New York Times” doesn’t review our comedy, that doesn’t mean we don’t have fans. We do.
Think of the people who support us in our work: our critique partners, our favorite theatre company, our mom. These are our fans, the ones who “get” us and recognize the important work we do. We may not have that funky nickname or memorable walk-up music, or get a tub of Gatorade dumped on us. But we do have fans who support us and think we have value to bring to the world.
Find those people. They will sustain you during the tough times, the months of writers block, the way-too-many rejections. They might even tell you that you’re their favorite writer in the whole wide world
Kitty Felde has written dozens of plays. These days, she writes The Fina Mendoza Mysteries, a series designed to introduce civics to kids…so that they can teach their parents.
The Alligator Farm
I just came back from a three month residency in Taos, New Mexico. As someone who is not independently wealthy and has a few (many, loud) obligations to people and entities that cannot be put on hold for an entire, unbroken three months…it was not exactly the most peaceful or focused period of artistic creation anyone has ever had. Life must go on, after all.
But I never (truly) expected it to be. Hoped it would be? Sure. Expected it to be? Naw.
While a residency is meant as a time to take a pause on the rest of the world and focus only on your art…they are, in my experience, more than that. Yes, how lovely would it be to truly turn off the world (especially the world as it is right now) and just create. But to me they are opportunities to live, for a time, in a place I would never be able to afford to live in (or perhaps even think about moving to) otherwise. It’s a chance to be filled up with new experiences, a new environment, new people. It’s a time to be inspired by others’ practices, art, and points of view.
But I think most importantly, it’s also a time when you keep your artistic practice at the forefront of your mind — even when you are not actively creating, you are aware that you are there to create. And that time is limited. It’s pressurized time. That simple awareness and ticking clock makes you prioritize the work, and to look at everything that happens there as fuel for that work. Even interruptions. Even the things that don’t go as planned. Even the things you miss while you’re gone.
It’s easy to allow your priorities to slip in every day life. It’s easy to forget things that are important to you. And sometimes a change of scenery is the thing you need to remind you of what you do and why. And maybe discover something you’ve lost.
And one thing I was reminded of while in Taos was my love of late night radio. I am such a Spotify bitch — I don’t listen to radio anymore, only the endless playlists and podcasts. I even find myself listening to the same episodes of the same podcasts over and over, like a kind of security blanket.
But in Taos, I began to listen to the local radio station True Taos Radio — and I was even a guest one early morning to promote an artist showcase. But what started my new obsession for the station was the segment “Monotone Mondays” on Monday nights from 10pm-12am during which the DJ listed the artists he was about to play in such a performance poetry adjacent vibe that it made me stop the conversation I was in the middle of and listen. I was hooked.
I began streaming it as often as I could, and often when I was writing. I came to love the listing off of the local events that day, mentioning locations I was familiar with and sometimes artists I’d met who would be performing at the Taos Inn or the Alley Cantina; the ads for local businesses; the casual DJ voices; the always new, always a bit odd, always changing music choices. It made me remember how something can be hyper-local and still feel strangely expansive.
One Monday night, I kept listening past when Monotone Mondays ended. I was writing, pushing to meet a deadline I’d made up for myself. It was Tuesday morning at 1am…and suddenly I discovered “The Alligator Farm.”
I was only able to catch it a couple times, but what I remember of The Alligator Farm was a mix of macabre sketches, oddball music, non sequiturs, and high strangeness that again made me stop and listen. It was chaos and whimsy at 1am. And I loved it, even if I didn’t understand it.
I suddenly remembered years of driving late nights listening to George Noory. Being seven years old and hosting my own radio show in my room that I recorded on cassettes in my boom box. The early morning radio I’d look forward to on my long commutes to a job I hated.
I don’t know where this remembering, this discovery may lead to. Maybe nowhere. Maybe the act of remembering and being inspired or being made to stop and listen to something fleeting, that I can’t go back and replay, is enough. Maybe THAT is just another way of keeping these things present in our minds. THAT is what I got from the residency.
That’s the scariest thing about leaving a residency. That any progress you made shaking off bad habits or a poor artistic attention span will slip right back to where you started.
Remembering is a practice, just like mindfulness, just like writing. It is active.
Perhaps I didn’t finish the great American play at the residency. But I got The Alligator Farm. And you know what I’ll be doing at 1am (12am PT) this Tuesday night. So I can keep remembering. So I can keep this feeling at the forefront of my mind and not let that ticking clock out of my sight.
Here’s to you. Finding your own Alligator Farm.
The FPI Files: New “Winter’s Tale” Speaks to Our Time
By Sarah Garic
Why do we go back to Shakespeare? Time may pass, whole centuries even, and yet these plays continue to show that we humans are working through the same things… over and over again. So then, what changes? I like to think that you can never listen to a song and hear it exactly the same as you did before. Maybe there’s something new that sparked – a chord, a thought, a color… because the day, time, setting, potentially you were different. And in this particularly interesting moment in history, I wonder… what will resonate with the audience – with you! – in a play in which a king exerts violent power over his family, his subjects, at the harm of those he holds most dear, potentially even himself?
Tracy Young first lifted The Winter’s Tale into modern verse through Play On Shakespeare, a non-profit company promoting and creating contemporary modern translations of Shakespeare’s plays. For Tracy, a director and playwright with a deep portfolio spanning new plays to translations and adaptations, accessibility is a driving force: “Shakespeare wrote for everybody to be able to enjoy the plays; he was not an elitist.”
Now, you may be thinking, “I don’t know if I buy that; Shakespeare isn’t for me.” And you’re probably not alone in that sentiment. My mom once told me she would have to take a class before she could understand Shakespeare’s plays. I feel you mom! I’ve taken many Shakespeare classes, acted in his plays, and feel like I’m barely scratching the surface.
Tracy hears us, she hears my mom, and all those who may think that Shakespeare stands on a lofty pedestal unreachable for us mere mortals. That is exactly why she is doing this work. Her goal is to render this play as something that can and should engage everyone. So the question is, what might spark with you now in Tracy Young and Lisa Wolpe’s adapted The Winter’s Tale, playing at the Skylight Theatre Company? And what will you hear in 5, 10, 15 years down the road if you chance across this play again? Here’s hoping that the tyrannical king will resonate a bit less.
And on that note, Tracy and I dove right into the juicy stuff.
Sarah Garic: What is resonating now, in the rehearsal room, with all that is happening in the U.S., in the world; metaphysically, spiritually…?
Tracy Young: The original theme is about a man who gives in to false thinking. He suspects his wife and best friend of having an affair… Hmm we’ve definitely seen that storyline before! Horrible consequences role out as a result of conspiratorial, paranoid, and destructive thought processes. This really resonates with the rampant online ecosphere of disinformation, conspiracy-minded thinking and weaponized information that we are living through right now. And this play is asking, what are the consequences of weaponized information? Time will reveal the long-term harms, but certainly the characters’ and people’s ideologies are being shaped by things that may not be true.
Sarah: Is there a particular character whose story was emphasized in this adaptation?
Tracy: We emphasized the role of Perdita, which means little lost one. She is the daughter of King Leontes and Queen Hermione. Royalty is her curse, and she is sent away and uprooted from who she is, her home, her original place in the world. She grows up in these other places and with other people.
In our adaptation, the actor who plays that role is trans and the character is trans. We focus on the theme of trans-ness and trans-identity, ensuring that there is textual support. In fact, a lot of Shakespeare’s plays integrate trans-ness.
This culture currently has heightened weaponization of language against trans-culture and trans-identity. The character’s marginalization has resonance with her trans-ness as well.
I find that no matter who we are or how we identify, we can recognize ourselves and what it means to be alive and navigate ourselves and the world with these plays as a support. This is why I find Shakespeare’s plays incredibly adaptable to the exploration of modern themes and language.
Sarah: I want to hop back to the idea of being displaced from community. How do you address the question of whether we have agency in choosing who is our community and where is our home? Is Perdita – and the broader “we” – forever stuck with who our father is, etc.?
Tracy: That is really interesting because in the original text, the characters all reunite after a 16-year flash forward. Time has been a factor, and the king is sort of welcomed back into the community. There is a controversial ending in which they are all reunited and there is forgiveness and even happiness maybe.
In the adaptation, we’ve changed some of the way that the last moments play out. We, and particularly the character of Hermione, wrestle with the question, Can you embrace your husband after experiencing such trauma? Should you? In the original, Hermione embraces Leontes.
Sarah: She embraces the monster. I am really curious by how we deal with monsters. If Hermione embraces Leontes in the original, is it possible that Leontes becomes less scary to her?
Tracy: A lot of times when Leontes is portrayed, he is the villain until he’s not. Somehow the monster is able to find humanity at the end of the play; it lets people off the hook for complicity with the own monsters that we may carry.
In this adaptation, I try to humanize Leontes from the beginning. Leontes has a lot of internalized trauma. The play wants to relate to all the characters in some way; no one is excluded. Shakespeare creates worlds where there are complexity and nuance because humans are so complicated and contradictory.
In the journey that Leontes takes, you see how hideous and destructive he is, and yet, you see and track what were the things that contributed to that … what kind of things set the stage? And we explore that without forcing forgiveness or diminishing the culpability of what the person has done.
In this adaptation, we are actively reckoning with the complexity of doing harm in all the different ways.
Sarah: Going to need to soak that one in… Switching gears here, what does a modern translation and then adaptation entail?
Tracy: For a modern translation, the first directive is do no harm. When you think it needs to change, the goal is to really interrogate why it needs to change before you change it
Then, the overarching goal is to make the writing more accessible, which of course is going to be subjective. I used my own sensibility and experience being a theatre-maker for many, many years.
For example, with the syntax: often we don’t speak that way anymore; we use a different vocabulary, a different way of forming phrases. I’m looking to unravel the syntax knot while keeping the iambic pentameter structure. With a modern translation, we can stay in time with the play rather than struggling with the language being too antiquated.
There are also events of the past that the audience would have recognized back then, but that are not recognizable now. In some cases, there is a modern equivalent that speaks in a similar way. My mission is to try and find a modern-day analog while keeping the verse intact.
Sarah: Whew, that’s not for the faint of heart!
Tracy: Oh! And the comedy! One of the main challenges is the comedy; comedy needs to be situated in the present-day for us to understand it. Jokes have their own timing and construction of syntax; they also require content accessibility. Ever been in a theatre when some people laugh, but most don’t get it?
Sarah: Yup, that’s been me… once, twice, thrice?
Tracy: In this play, there are a bunch of moments that are comedic bits. I try to deal with the jokes by asking, what kind of a joke is it? And then you try to re-write it in a way that people will recognize!
“The Winter’s Tale” by William Shakespeare, in modern verse translation by Tracy Young, adapted by Lisa Volpe and Tracy Young and directed by Tracy Young, produced by Gary Grossman and Armando Huipe for Skylight Theatre Company in Los Feliz, runs through June 14th. For tickets call (213) 761-7061 or www.skylighttheatre.org
Beige Bras and Oatmeal…
In The Women of Brewster Place, one of the characters discusses the constants in her life as “beige bras and oatmeal.” My late mother loved oatmeal; she talked about it like it was a delicacy. I can’t digest it well, but I promise that after an oatmeal conversation with Mother, I would invariably try it again, only to have it refuse to go down my throat.
The constants for me have been storytelling, dreams of becoming, and disappointments… I have dreamed of adventures so vast they seem otherworldly. Now those dreams play out like parallel world delusions. Calloused by loss and trauma, I spend more time healing than moving into a dream. I’ve lost time, as if it were a bunch of quarters sitting in an unused purse. I have suffered so many disappointments, I am unable to see the silver linings anymore.
I am fighting myself. I’ve got a horror story in me that I don’t want to write, but it’s blocking anything else I want to write.
What to do?
The Chaos of Spring
By Cynthia Wands
I was able to see several theater pieces by LAFPI members this winter/spring; and it was wonderful to see and hear such incredible voices in our community. I’m grateful to have seen “Four Women in Red” by Laura Shamas; “Wound Care” by Jennie Webb; “Willing Suspension of Disbelief” by Katherine James, and “Curly Wings” by Sarah Garic. Kudos to the EST/LA Winterfest 2025 and the Victory Theatre for bringing the spotlight to these playwrights. I so appreciate watching live theater again, and witnessing the magic space that theater creates.
I especially needed the distraction away from the our current news culture. Because it seems that the planet has run mad. Politically, morally, seasonally, financially – mad.
I’ve needed an escape, and so I’ve been spending time in the garden, and the roses are very late this year. Usually, in the first week in April, most of my roses have bloomed at least once, and they would have branched out with lovely baby buds. But this year, I only have one rose that has opened up, the Redcoat rose. The weather was dry, and hot, then cold, a bit wet, then windy, and finally topped off with a couple of mild earthquake shakers. I mean, what could possibly flower amidst all this damn chaos. Hence the idea of oubaitori: the idea that people, like flowers, bloom in their own time and in their individual ways. (I myself am a late bloomer.)
The Redcoat rose, April 11, 2025
The Redcoat is one of my oldest David Austin roses and, like a racehorse, she has a genetic lineage that is worth a giggle: she’s crossbred from the roses Seedling and Golden Showers. I love her light scent of cold cream, apples and fledgling hopes. (That last bit is my description; the rose catalogues say she’s “slightly musky”. What do they know – she’s not the least bit “musky”.) And she’s not a showboat rose, hasn’t won any of the awards or acclaim that the more extroverted roses in the David Austin catalogue have won – but here she is. She persevered. She found her own individual time to bloom.
But back to spring. New seeds, new flowers, a fresh start. But what the hell. The planet is on fire this week (the highlands in SCOTLAND are witnessing catastrophic fires right now). There were hundreds of tornadoes in the Midwest, and now more catastrophic floods in the Southeast, and Spain has recorded its wetest season ever with massive floods in March.
Fires in Scotland, April 12, 2025
Floods in Spain, March 2025
And there’s our current political environment, which I can’t begin to write about. So this spring, I’m witnessing the chaos that we’re living in, and trying to manage my expectations.
A friend recently shared a writing exercise that I found – challenging.
Part one: you write down all your Milestones. Events that happened in your life that were a significant point in your development. Write all of them.
Part two: edit down all your milestones to just twenty (20) significant events.
Part three: winnow down all your milestones to just ten (10). And then to just five (5).
So you’re left with the five most important milestones in your life, thus far. It’s an interesting look at what has bloomed and when. I encourage you to take a look at it.
Roses from my garden in 2013.
Allow the cut end to callus over
When you propagate a cactus, you twist a piece off. You allow the cut end to callus over. How long depends on the size of the cactus. It could be two weeks. It could be eight weeks. It’s as long as it takes for the cactus to form a callus over the place where it was once rooted to something else. Only then is it ready to be replanted as its own.
When something you were working on withers to the ground, either from never being finished, or just being bad (I often make things that are both at the same time), you could just let it gather dust and decompose. You could also go find the one line of dialogue that captured why you wanted to create in the first place, and twist the piece off. You do nothing with it next. Allow the end to callus over. Allow what once carried you away to end where this now begins. It must learn to not be rooted to anything but itself.
There is work I am planning to revisit. The kind where so many rewrites and reworking of the plot just never produced what I set out to do. I will line up all the twisted off pieces under the sun and allow the cut ends to callus over. Eventually, once replanted, one might even find new roots.
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.
