What do you do when your Mac breaks down? CRASHES, COLLAPSES? Have you seen the blue screen of death? Have you stared at the small rectangle in the middle of a blue field with the smiling??? face in the center, alternating with a question mark? Have you followed the troubleshooting instructions in the manual? Held down the Option key, held down the start button? Have you turned the power on and off, pulled out the plug? Waited a few seconds and started everything up all over again?

I have. And I hate it.

I mean, how do you write when that happens? That happy hovering of the fingertips over the keyboard, the thought that the fingers might hit the keys and without ever engaging the brain might tap out something unexpected and undoubtedly brilliant is gone. No back space, no delete, no spell check. No dips into Google for a quick check on who, when, and where. No rest breaks in email, no welcome distracting photos of friends and family, no hilarious Youtubes gone viral.

I imagine that most of the modern playwrights we respect and admire had a typewriter. Lillian Hellman probably tapped things out. Arthur Miller. Carson McCullers. On a manual  typewriter, do we think? Or an electric Corona? But how did writers without machines manage to write such wonderful things and do it so fast?  Charles Dickens wrote fifteen novels with a quill pen before he died at fifty-eight. And he had ten children!

I recently read the oldest poem found, a Sumerian love poem, circa 2030 BCE. Here is the first stanza:

“Bridegroom, dear to my heart
Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet
You have captivated me
Let me stand tremblingly before you.”

The poet or poetess wrote that gorgeous poem by pressing the letters into wet clay using a reed stylus and then baking the clay into a tablet.

So, I’m not going to complain.  I can put words to paper. I have some pens I love – the Precise Pilot rolling ball in blue and black. I’m crazy about lined legal pads in white and yellow. I could jot down a few notes. Record some observations.

And stick the Mac hard drive into the freezer for ten minutes. That might work, too.

I have been under the weather and out of the loop and thought that before I blogged, I would catch up with my fellow bloggers. I’ve been reading and marveling at how much we have in common, how much support we need and give to each other, how informed and curious we are about the world, how engaged in life, and how madly, wildly, truly, persistently, we pursue The Play and The Production.

Almost all of us have suffered from writer’s block and have looked for ways to jumpstart ourselves, to beat self-pity and self-destruction and self-criticism and despair. I’ve read all of the blogs on the subject and have taken a lot of the advice but am still struggling with all four. The tip I liked most and consistently implement was #101 from 101 Tips to Fight and Overcome Writer’s Block. “Grab the chocolate.”

The links are always worth reading. It was good to catch up with Eve Ensler again and her passionate (everything she says is passionate) reply to Todd Akins and his theory of legitimate rape. I liked the article about the Pasadena Playhouse’s problems with Tales Of A Fourth Grade Lesbo, particularly the caution about email that I know and forget, which is that “you can’t tell tone in an email” and that “if you haven’t offended someone, unintentionally, recently, you will — trust me.” It’s the same with Facebook, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t really know how to use it and rarely visit my page and I find out I’ve been unfriended three times. What’s up with that?

It was lovely to find out that I share Ravenchild’s love of The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett. It’s one of my favorite books. (I was tickled to hear someone in the audience at the Odyssey say that the last line of the book was one of best she’d ever read. I agree.)

Jen Huszcza’s idea of going for silly in plays, too, resonated. I think that Singing in the Rain is the best movie ever made, and when Donald O’Connor sings Make ‘Em Laugh, I laugh. (After shooting that scene, Donald O’Connor was taken off to the hospital. He smoked four packs a day!).

The blogs about self-producing and looking for funding never grow old.

What we all seem to feel is the loneliness of the long distance playwright. Jessica Abram’s feeling about “how freaking lonely it is” hit home.

I always want to bridge that gap between the writer and the rest of the world and have to restrain myself on opening nights. If the production is good and the play works, I am so high with joy, I want to embrace the world. If I add a couple of glasses of wine to that, I hug, kiss, and press the flesh, wanting to share that crazy high, terrifying dogs, children, delivery people and passing strangers. I have to stop at two glasses. If I had three, I’d make everybody stand in a circle, hold hands and sing, “We Are The World.”

Of course, if the play isn’t a success and I can see only fixed smiles and glassy eyes in the opening night crowd, I just grab some sausage rolls and cheese bits from the lobby trays, retreat to my car, and sob.

It was a pleasure to read all the blogs and I was delighted to hear about Robin Byrd’s grandmother who could “sing a whole church happy.”   I think that’s what we are all trying to do.

Last March I began writing a gratitude list in my journal every night before I went to bed. The practice was supposed to be for 40 days.  The practice was inspired by Melody Beattie’s book Make Miracles in 40 Days, and I liked doing it so much (and things began happening that were pointing to the miracle I wanted), that I’ve kept it up ever since.   I won’t explain Melody’s thinking, she does it well enough in the book.

But I thought I’d share some of my gratitude from this week related to the Tactical Read of my play Handcrafted Healing that L.A.F.P.I. sponsored Tuesday night.

First a shout out to fellow L.A.F.P.I. bloggers Robin Byrd and Jen Huszcza as well as director Harriet Lewis for attending.

A big thank you to my fellow Fierce Backbone writers and actors who came — your presence very much helps foster the feeling of community in our group.

A tip of the hat to friends Carol and Stewart who were in the audience — what a joy to see you both.

Blessings to the actors who donated their time and talents to the reading.  I know it was tough doing it with just two rehearsals — as I said to a couple of them, you had to walk & chew gum & relate & ride a roller coaster & read lines all at the same time and that’s difficult.  Thank you for your vulnerability and passion on stage, you willingness to dive in and commit to the characters.  They very much seemed alive to me.

Thank you to director Sabrina Lloyd who took on this job and then had a number of life challenges come your way in August and September.  Thank you for persevering.

Finally, mucho gratitude to Sabina Ptasznik for putting it all together and your support in countless ways.

I asked the woman who literally wrote the book on writing business plans for films to read my film’s business plan (for a fee).  She lives about four blocks from me.  When I learned this, I thought it was a sign from God:  Get over there and get the EXPERT to weigh in.

The first words out of her mouth were, “You have to take the tone out that you don’t think it’ll make money.”  I guess my worries were pretty transparent.  I smiled politely and didn’t let on that all summer I’ve been wrestling with art-investor-money thoughts.

Perhaps you, too, have had thoughts like these as you waded into figuring out how to finance your plays, your projects:

Does all art have to make money?  (Of course it doesn’t.  Uh, but then… how do we pay investors back?)

Use art patrons!  They love supporting creative stuff after a hard day at the office making boat loads of money!  (Yeah, but still.)

Okay then, can I make a film for free?  (No.   I want to pay the cast and crew – and pay them more than food.)

Can I do the puppet version of the film for $25?  (No!  Ick!)

And then in a film’s business plan you have to do a chart of PROJECTED REVENUE.  That’s right, putting on your best prognosticator wizard hat, you look at the first, second and third year life of the film and take a shot at guessing how much money will come rolling in.  (Aren’t you glad you work in Equity Waver Theatre?  Can you imagine doing that for your original play that’s opening down there at Santa Monica Blvd. and Lillian Way?)

These conversations in my head make me feel as if I’m constantly justifying my film.  As if wanting to do it isn’t reason enough.

I will close with a snippet from screenwriter Charlie Kaufman’s speech at BAFTA in 2011 (thank you to a previous L.A.F.P.I. blogger who told us about his speech) from which I take some comfort:

“What can be done? Say who you are, really say it in your life and in your work. Tell someone out there who is lost, someone not yet born, someone who won’t be born for 500 years. Your writing will be a record of your time. It can’t help but be that. But more importantly, if you’re honest about who you are, you’ll help that person be less lonely in their world because that person will recognize him or herself in you and that will give them hope. It’s done so for me and I have to keep rediscovering it. It has profound importance in my life. Give that to the world, rather than selling something to the world. Don’t allow yourself to be tricked into thinking that the way things are is the way the world must work and that in the end selling is what everyone must do. Try not to.”

We’ve all heard about the miracle of childbirth.  And no — not the miracle of human emerging from human: the miracle that causes the memory of  its agony to diminish almost immediately after it happens.  Well, it’s been almost six months since The Laughing Cow, the play I wrote and co-produced, opened.  As I contemplate embarking on the process again, I thought it might be worthwhile to take a stroll down the memory lane of angst, neurosis and borderline alcoholism that accompanied the birthing process to see if that same miracle applies.

It’s one thing to produce a play; it’s another to produce your own play; another thing entirely to produce your own play that involves fifteen actors, multiple scene changes, a six-week rehearsal schedule and a shoestring budget.  But that’s beside the point; any playwright-slash-producer in this position can understand the uniqueness of the role and just how freaking lonely it is.

That’s right.  Six months later, as magical, life-affirming and miraculous as it was, what resonates the most glaringly is the lonely feeling I experienced a good amount of the time.  For one thing, whoever said that no one cares about your play as much as you do was dead right.  As great a production team as I had,  there was just that much more at stake for me.  Many a day did I (silently) freak out over someone’s not responding to an email or completing a task they were assigned.  Who cares that they had a job or a husband — the highly hormonal pregnant woman in me was screeching (silently).  This is my baby!  Crowning!  Stop what you’re doing and help me!

Then, production and, to continue with the metaphor, the cord has been cut.  And yet despite the outpouring of love and support from family, friends, dentist, therapist, hair stylist and acupuncturist alike, why didn’t I enjoy it more as I watched my amazing actors speak my words and get laughs?  Why did I sit in abject terror night after night, to the point where a car alarm down the street heard (by me) during the show would send me (silently) into righteous indignation?  My own unique neuroses aside, I can only offer this: my work was done.  As everyone else manned the light booth or acted, I was there watching.  Judging.  Worrying.  And that, my friends, can be very lonely.

After most shows, we’d celebrate at our local watering hole-slash-cool gastropub.  The actors, those lucky sons of bitches, had their catharsis on stage.  My terror was still with me, only mitigated by a shot or three.  They’d chat, watch sports.  I would feel a great sense of accomplishment but still, a part of me was still back there.  Why didn’t we fill the house?  Why didn’t the audience laugh at the funniest line I’ve ever written in my life?

I don’t mean to sound bleak.  Would I do it again?  I would and will, even if nature didn’t do enough of her part to dull the memory of some of the aches and pains.  The magic, the communal effort, the gift of working with so many awesome talents to create something we  will always share — that made it all worth it.

And who knows — next time I may have to do it au naturel, that is to say, without the alcohol.

Hi, my name is Jessica Abrams and it’s been a year since I’ve worked on a new play.

I’ve mulled ideas over, even jotted some thoughts down (you know the kind:  you look back at them in a year’s time and they make absolutely no sense) but no scribbles have given birth to characters who then tell a story, and no story keeps me up at night or distracts me from the nastiest of Real Housewives catfights.  And even though in said year I’ve produced a play of mine, written a spec script for an existing TV show, worked and re-worked a pilot pitch, pitched that pilot at various studios, had two readings of other plays, fostered a pitbull, deep-cleaned my kitchen and gotten on intimate terms with several Facebook friends and their families, I miss waking up in the morning energized to see what those kooky kids — my characters in a good mood (or me in a good mood?  It’s often hard to differentiate) — have to say.  I miss the exhilarating feeling that comes with creating an entire world out of a handful of people and a stage.

If this were a support group as opposed to a one-sided blog post, I would ask you, fellow creative talents, to share any thoughts you may have on this subject.  I do have a few flimsy hypotheses myself.  For instance, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I’m spoiled.  The last four plays I wrote came with an ease that I still to this day marvel at.  The characters in The Laughing Cow, the play I co-produced last Spring, ambushed me as I was walking across the Disney lot, where I was working at the time (and on which the fictional company in the play is “loosely” based).  A tiff with a 20-something hipster neighbor over the well-being of her cat spawned Easter in Tel Aviv.  A handful of ex-boyfriends came back for a few more rounds and poof — a one-woman show.  Spoiled or intimidated?  That’s the question I often ask myself.

There’s another issue here too.  Not (yet!) being paid to write my plays I have the luxury of being able to write what I want.  But that can create an added burden.  I had the amazing fortune of attending the Kennedy Center Playwriting Intensive two summers ago and the opportunity to hear Marsha Norman speak.  She implored us to search within our souls for that thing we are trying to exorcise — which is essentially who we are — and to shape our stories around that.  Find it before writing, she said.  Figure that out.  (And anyone who was with me that day — including Ms. Norman herself — who may have experienced that talk differently, please accept time and historical relativism as my disclaimer).  I think there’s a lot to be said for understanding that deep need, but I’m also willing to accept that those questions can get answered once the writing has begun.  Thoughts?

I’m always amazed (and a little jealous) at my friends getting their MFAs and how tight their deadlines are.  I know from the Kennedy Center that a creative environment fosters creativity; or is it simply being scared shitless by a particular professor? My point is…?  I’m not sure what it is, exactly.  Maybe I’m just “sharing”, as they call it in 12-step programs.  The truth is, I miss being in that heightened creative state — it gets me up in the morning.  It fills me with joy like nothing else.  It connects me with myself.  I think I need to jump-start a new play.

Or maybe I should look into getting my MFA.