to be continued

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I never had a problem telling stories, even to a fault.

In Kindergarten, my favorite tall tale was that my teacher had married me to both cutie-pie Sean and red-headed Adam in one day. I remember how impressed I was with myself that my mother and aunt believed my story and only questioned the point that Ms. Jean had the power to become a priest.

In 1st grade, a dollar bill was found in the doorway between the classrooms. No one claimed it, so I saw an opportunity for more chocolate and said it was mine. Older sister Kelly was suspicious, however, and upon further examination I admitted it was just a wish. Sister Jeanne Marie hit me with her ruler and my sister labeled a tattle-tail. Although her actions brought out the truth, she still had to wear cat ears and tails for a day so the whole school knew she had tattled. (Logic was never the nuns’ strong point.)

This is me at my HS graduation party. Goth much?she had tattled on me. (Try to work that out with logic.)

I gave up a scholarship to the local Catholic HS for a fresh start a few cities away. From the very beginning there, I crafted my own history, my own mythology, carefully told and secretive so my sister, who attended the same school, would not have the ability to quash statements that I thought made me more interesting. For the most part, it worked, but a few major whoppers came back and whacked me in the ass (another story for another time).

Moving from Boston to New York for college allowed an even wider bearth for creating my past just how I liked it.Some stories I’d heard from others became my own. I tested reactions from various people and adjusted what they learned about me for maximum impact. I aimed for mysterious, irreverent, intelligent, rebellious, sexy and not someone that everyone should like.

Fast forward a few years and I move cross country from New York to Los Angeles in 2002 – a massive change for a lifetime public transport gal who had gotten her license mere days before the road trip. Moving with a (then) boyfriend means your past and present travel with you, so how did this upheaval affect my storytelling?

I saw my stories in sharp relief to my present and hopes for my future. This mostly fresh start – amplified by the eventual break-up with the boyfriend – renewed the feeling that stories are vibrant. Stories are life. Literally moving out of my comfort zones meant my career and personal path is literally up to me. I was no longer beholden to perceptions anyone had, including my own to myself.

Visiting the east coast progressively got harder for me. I fell back into the old stories, the past, the rhythms of family members who I had already outgrown. I saw family and friends’ prejudices and (mostly wasted) potentials much more clearly, then applied the same criticism to myself:

In what areas of my life did I experience growth and what nasty, sticky preconceptions still lingered?

That is a question I ask myself every single day.

To be continued. Always.

Being “down” isn’t always a bad thing!

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A couple clambered up to sit not far behind me at the recent staged reading of Water Closet and revealed not only their disdain for the title of my play, but that they were only in attendance to be “supportive” after having read an early draft. “Supposedly it has been revised,” the lady added. They knew I was in the room, but not my connection to the play.

After overhearing their conversation, I grinned. Suddenly all of my anxiety and fear dissipated, as I realized I had nowhere to go but up. During the course of the reading I listened with love in my heart for my characters and their painful stories. I remembered the words of the artistic director who wrote me to “listen to the words” in his kind effort to alleviate my abject terror. I laughed and glowed, as the student actors discovered fresh moments in front of an audience for the first time. I actually had a great time!

Apparently so did much of the audience. For at the talk back afterward I received lots of wonderful feedback, as well as some questions about its emotional linearity. That couple? They did not talk back. They didn’t offer one word to the discussion. And it’s okay. I am really cool with it. Really 🙂

Whence comes imagination?

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In November 2011 Water Closet was read inNew York at a Dramatists Guild Friday Night Footlights event by the White Horse Theater Company. It was a wonderful experience both working with Cyndy Marion and her company, and receiving theNew York audience comments. Both were critical in my reshaping of the play in December in preparation for a January 2012 workshop and staged reading by the Fullerton College New Play Festival. The FC workshop included an intense (challenging without being destructive) dramaturgical session with festival Artistic Director William Mittler that caused me to take yet another scalpel to the play in an effort to make my apparently sub-conscious intentions more clearly understood on the printed page.

I am only beginning to realize my first writing of a play is one that I do not necessarily consciously control. – Usually when I sit down in front of my computer to write – after the initial spark of inspiration and contemplation about how I might articulate it – I feel like “I” step aside, open a door into my sub-conscious, and wait to see who walks out and starts expressing themselves. In my meditation I do actually “hear” them (not in a pathological sense), although I do not always understand their intentions upfront. It was recently pointed out to me that my work has a sort of dream logic and is not linearly realistic.

This then is my greatest challenge when it comes to rewriting: How do I make the seemingly illogical connections (dreams) I’ve made in a text accessible (art) to a listening or reading audience, so my play might actually find a production? Fortunately I do enjoy the process of rewriting, although the experience of rewriting is completely different.

I am beginning to research and write a new play, We Don’t Serve White Bread Here. However I do hope to return to the topic of what is the source of imagination, as I am curious to discover if there is a sort of communion among playwrights… Today I stumbled upon Dr. Lance Owens Tolkien lectures; fascinating… I would be curious to know what your mind “feels” as you write, if you would care to comment!

AFTER THE READING: NOW WHAT DO i DO?

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In yesterday’s posting, I made my list of “what I’m listening for” at a staged reading. Now, the question now is what to do with that information.

TAKE A BREATH

I like to let the reading sit for a day or two. It helps to get some distance between myself and the script. If there’s a talkback or a critique, I like to give it more time before I start tearing the script apart. That thinking time helps to organize my thoughts.

SIFTING WHEAT FROM CHAFF

Not all your notes – or someone else’s feedback – are useful. I re-read my notes a couple of times. Some things clearly need fixing. Others I want to think some more about. And then there’s the notes you absolutely think are wrong. I don’t burn the paper. Instead, I put those “wrong” ideas someplace – just in case I want to revisit them six months down the line. There’s always the possibility that they were right after all.

ONE STEP AT A TIME

I try to pick one thing that is a) not too disruptive to the rest of the script if I changed it; or b) not too emotionally vexing to change. Just changing one thing gives me courage to do further surgery.

Next, tackle the notes that make the most sense, even if it DOES mean tearing the script apart. You did save the original copy, didn’t you? You can always go back to it.

MAKE THE CHANGES YOU NEED TO MAKE, THEN…

Step back. Let the script breathe. Perhaps schedule another reading, perhaps share with your writing group. Perhaps get it off in the mail to that playwriting contest. Or stick it in a drawer for a little while. Just remember where you put it.

Staged Readings

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There’s nothing like hearing your words read before an audience.

I’ve had the good fortune to have two readings in two months of my newest play THE LUCKIEST GIRL. (It’s the play that not one, but two artistic directors told me no one will ever produce for political correctness reasons. So, I’m grateful that it’s even getting a reading!)

As much as we playwrights disparage the whole development hell process, it’s so important to have a safe place to help a play grow. And one part of that growth is exposing it to an audience.

Thought I’d share a few notes about what I’m listening for during a reading of one of my plays.

What I’m listening for:

LAUGHS

It’s the ultimate immediate audience feedback. Did they get my jokes? Even my dramas have little laughs sprinkled in. I admit if my chicken jokes in the Bosnian war crimes drama don’t get laughs, I feel like a failure. So the first thing I listen for is laughs from the audience – what jokes are popular? Which ones fall flat? Is there some unintentional laughter about something that seemed perfectly reasonable to me when I wrote it? Could it get a bigger laugh with different phrasing or a different punch line?

REPEATING YOURSELF

My bad playwriting motto is “if it’s good once, write it again elsewhere in the script. Several times.”

The reading is where I FINALLY hear the repetition that somehow doesn’t jump off the page. And it’s an opportunity to look for the places that plot points or character clues NEED to be repeated.

LISTEN TO THE AUDIENCE

My new standard for bad plays is when the audience starts texting. I’ve seen it happen at exactly the point in the script (not mine, of course…) where the action lags, the piece feels like it’s not going anywhere, the audience is bored. The worst example of this was a mediocre production of Jon Jory’s adaptation of “Pride and Prejudice” last year in Florida. Not one, not two, but THREE people in the audience all pulled out cellphones at exactly the same moment – late in the script just as Mr. Darcy was about to propose! Jane Austen was turning over in her grave! Dramatically, that should be the HIGH point of the script. It was not.

No one texted during my readings, but sitting in the back row, I did notice several folks fidgeting. I made note of where they came in the script and will now look to see why interest is lagging at that point.

LOGIC

Do the events of the play follow in a logical order? I discovered that I had inserted a short scene in a place that made no sense whatsoever.

TYPING MISTAKES

There’s nothing like an actor trying to make sense of a line missing a word to catch your attention. A cast is like a room full of proof readers.

STUFF THAT STILL DOESN’T WORK

I have a series of short “interview” scenes where my two young actors do a man on the street interview of actors who play a revolving cast of characters. It was clunky in rehearsal. It was still clunky the first reading. And it never improved in the second reading. I could say “three strikes and you’re out,” but I think I have an idea of how to fix it.

STUFF THAT DOES WORK (or “get your finger off the delete button)

There’s a line that just felt wrong to me. And I’d made a note to myself to change it. And then the audience laughed loudly at the original line. Will I keep it? See rule one.

LISTEN TO YOUR DIRECTOR

Directors are amazing people. They see things in your script you had no idea were there.

My both my DC and LA directors found things in my script I had not fully thought out. Which has helped me flesh out characters and motivations and a style quirk that needs ironing out. I think I took more notes than my actors.

LISTEN TO YOUR ACTORS

Actors bring heart and soul to your words. They generously spill their insides for the sake of your current draft. Pay attention to their instincts. They may see more in your characters than you do. Be aware of the lines that get stuck in their mouth. Usually it means the sentence construction needs a tweak.

The Play I Hate

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It started with the title. It was a great title. It was one of those titles that I thought, yes that’s what it’s all about. It was provocative yet mysterious. It was sexy yet full of ideas. It would even look good on a poster.

I started writing the characters. They were all right. They took their time revealing themselves, but I’m not a pushy writer. I gave them their space. There were five of them. They were all humans. They were characters that actors would love to play.

I liked the stage I saw. There was versatility to it, yet it was just realistic enough for an audience to say, ahah, I know that place. It was a good space.

I wrote a draft beginning to end. It was exploratory. I just wanted to see the characters run. It was two acts.

I put it aside for a year. Or maybe three years. Time is not specific in Los Angeles.

Recently, I picked it up again.

And

I hated it.

I hated everything about it. The set was claustrophobic. The characters were awful. The ideas in it were stupid and muddled. Even the title annoyed me.

I didn’t hate myself for writing the play. I just hated the play. What was I thinking?

I have written other plays that I’ve put aside for years. When I picked them up again, I could see my thinking and build on it. But this play was a junkyard of yuckiness. I even started to relish in my hatred of the play, and I knew not to give into hate.

So I put the play back in its virtual little yellow folder.

Then, last week, I started thinking about the play I hate. The title wasn’t so bad. I started making notes to change it. Oh no.

Then I realized that if I push all the things I hate about it further, I might start to like it.

Or not.

Meanwhile, I continue to work on a completely different play that I like.

For now.

And on that bombshell, I end my blogging week here. As always, it was a delight. Jen

On Jealousy

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Recently, I was talking with a writer friend whom I’ve known a lot of years. We go all the way back to writing craft class.

My writer friend works in a writing related field and makes good money. He also writes scripts occasionally.

We see each other from time to time and usually have a nice writing related discussion. Recently, over coffee, we were talking about the stuff we were working on. I was going through my list of writing to be done (it never will end, ever).

I’m Jealous. You’re so prolific. My writer friend said to me.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t want to say, oh you can be prolific too, you just have to write more because that would be just not true.

I was also shocked that someone would be jealous of me. Me???? I have terrible vertigo, and that’s just the beginning.

My writer friend has a lot going for him. His job is good. He lives well. He should not be jealous of me. I do not have the power job. Compared to him, I. . . .

Ahhh-hah. I see.

Maybe we should strive to not compare ourselves to others. In the long run, it all evens out, and if it doesn’t, so what.

 I have seen friends from school go on to be super successful in writing, and weirdly I don’t feel jealous of them. Besides, we were all goofballs in school, and I still think of them as goofballs.

 Besides, I don’t have time to be jealous. I’ve got writing to do.

The Kobayashi Maru Scenario

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 Or my Kirkian response to the Who Gives A Sh*t Question

I do read this blog when it’s not my week. Recently, Tiffany Antone raised the all important Who Gives A Sh*t Question. I could also call it, do people really want to see another play about characters sitting in chairs and talking about their issues?

Or I can ask, should I write stuff other people want to see? Should I play to the mob? Or should I challenge audience expectation and possibly never get produced? How do I keep the audience interested? How do I keep myself interested? I’m not interested. I suck. I can’t go on, I shall go on.

The no win cycle of writing new stuff-will the audience dig it-but needing to write it- but no one will get it (I’m paraphrasing) kept repeating in my head.

This led to the inevitable playwriting funk which sent me crawling back to prose-writing while watching movie star interviews on youtube.  

Then I was rescued by basic cable. One night, as I surfing channels, I came upon Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Kahn. Ahah! The Kobayashi Maru Scenario.

In Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Kahn, a Starfleet cadet has to take a simulation test. She is the captain of a starship and receives a distress call from a civilian freighter (called The Kobayashi Maru) in the neutral zone. If the captain goes into the neutral zone, it would mean war with the Klingons. The purpose of simulation is to test the cadet in a no win scenario.

Captain Kirk’s solution to the no win scenario was to reprogram the simulation, so there was a solution. He cheated. But he won.

Maybe the solution to the Who Gives A Sh*t question is not in the answer but in the question itself. Change the question or make the question irrelevant. At the same time, there’s an audience out there in the dark. Show them something.

At the end of Wrath of Kahn, Kirk faced a no win scenario, but Spock saved the day and sacrificed himself (although he came back in Star Trek 3). So another question about the no win scenario, is what will you give up to win? Sometimes, the cost is too high.

Then again, that’s just a movie. And all we’re doing is writing plays. Or are we?

Maybe it’s time to become more Kirkian in the playwriting. Live long and prosper.

Texting the Play

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Way back in April, Kitty Felde wrote on this blog about the audience texting during performances of bad plays.

This led to me thinking. What if it were possible for the audience to text the play during a performance and see their texts scrolling above the stage? It could be the next step in theatre watching. Folks comment on the blogs and articles on the web. Why not a play?

A performance of Hamlet could yield some interesting commentary:

Ophelia’s da bom!

2b not 2b woohoo!

Is that a real skull?

Why are they talking funny?

 

Or maybe during a performance of Waiting for Godot, the audience would get to see the following scroll:

When’s Godot gonna show up?

I don’t get it.

That’s cause you’re stupid.

No you’re stupid!

Why did we come?

Why are we here?

 

 Maybe the audience could text the playwright directly:

 This scene is totally not working for me.

 She DIED?????? Why??????

 Your actors are hot!!!!!! Yum

 That character is sooo based on me.

 

 Maybe members of the audience have their own drama to share:

 My blind date is an asshle!

 My blind date won’t give out

 Will u mrry me Sara?

 Which Sara?

 Sara T.

 No! —Sara T

 🙁

 

 In the spirit of audience democracy, comments are welcome.

 

 

The Paper Toss

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I love paper.

That’s a good love because I write on a lot of it. Even in this age where I can work on my cell phone, I prefer the pen (black or blue) and paper. I love the immediacy of putting pen to paper. I look at a blank sheet of paper (preferably with lines but I can work on blank stuff too), and I see possibility.

Through the years, I’ve written in notebooks and journals, on legal pads and post-it notes, around envelopes and folders. I don’t write on skin or fabric.

I now also write while typing into a keyboard. However, most of the time, I’m typing in something written down.

I also love doing rewrites on paper. I love crossing out and drawing arrows and making inserts and spreading several sheets on the table as I change around a section.

I have accumulated a lot of paper through the years. Even though my papers are organized in boxes, I felt like I was drowning in it, so this past holiday season, I did a huge paper toss.

Over the course of two nights, I hauled out the boxes and dove into two decades (I’m old) of paper. I swam through pages. Sometimes it was a script, sometimes a story, sometimes a love letter.

Sometimes, the pages were stiff from age and moisture. Sometimes, they were fragile from too much writing on them. Page by page, I kept or tossed, and my toss pile got larger and my recycling bin got fuller. 

It was time to let go. Let go, let go, let go.

It was time for the paper to go, get recycled, and become something else.

I kept the love letters though.