All posts by Jen Huszcza

My Awesome Place: An Autobiography of Cheryl B

I recently read a great book that I just have to recommend to you all. It’s called My Awesome Place: An Autobiography of Cheryl B, and it’s an excellent portrait of a young writer finding her voice and her awesome place in the world.

I knew Cheryl B back in the nineties at NYU. She went on to become a playwright, poet, and spoken word artist in New York. Sadly, she passed away way too soon in 2011.

When I finished this book, I felt I had to pass it on. It’s the kind of book that should be passed around. Then I started to get all poetical in the head. . .

This book is for that girl, that girl who’s too fat, too shy, not a straight A overachieving high school student. This book is for that girl who gets told she’ll never be anything except a toll booth fare taker. This book is for that girl whose parents don’t understand or maybe sort of do but can’t talk about it because the words don’t come out right. This book is for that girl who dreams of being more than what everyone around her thinks she can be even though she doesn’t know how to do it exactly. This book is for that girl and her friend and her friend’s friend. This book should be passed around while music’s blasting and the pages should get stained with beer, cigarettes, weed, and aquanet. This book shows that girl how to get to that awesome place.

You can get My Awesome Place on the Topside Press website.

Most Unsuccessful Playwright Ever

Yep, right here. Most unsuccessful playwright ever. And I hate superlatives.

Hello Lafpiers,

It’s my blog week here on LAFPI. So I had a whole big comic riff planned for my Monday post. I had planned to talk about how I had absolutely nothing happening in my playwriting world and how I was now aiming for a lack of success instead of success and how once I realized that I became a happier person even though to desire a lack of success instead of success is very un-American.

Then last week I got an email from Tiffany Antone. Darn you, Tiffanyyyyyy!

Tiffany is producing an evening of plays about pets, and I had sent her some monologues which I had totally forgotten about. Anyway, she’s putting my monologues in her pet play evening and would I be interested in writing another monologue?

Of course I wrote another monologue. So now, I have something theatrical happening and I can no longer be the most unsuccessful playwright ever. I’m bummed. I’m seriously bummed.

Meanwhile, on the cover of the most recent LA Weekly was a drawing of William Shakespeare with a laptop and the headline: Why Be a Playwright in LA? Inside, Steven Leigh Morris wrote a very engaging profile of four Los Angeles based playwrights. The article can be found here.

Personally, I’ve never been very good at being a playwright. I can’t figure out the secret handshake, and my wardrobe is all wrong. I just like to write plays that are crazy, sexy, cool.

But I could relate to the LA part of the headline. I’ve been looking around LA and asking myself why am I here? Sure there’s a great acting pool, but great actors can be found all over the world. Sure seventy degree February days are nice, but so is rain. Why am I in LA? I don’t have a witty answer for that one. I just know it’s April 2013, and I’m still in LA.

Odd and End

Here I am. The end of another blog week. The week seemed to fly by. Why does time drag on during the annoying boring times but fly when the good stuff is happening?

It rained in Los Angeles this morning, and the sky is still grey-white. Even though it’s January 25, 2013, you can walk outside with just a sweater. It’s odd weather.

Before I go, I want to briefly talk about ebooks. When I was at the Gathering (see Monday’s post), I mentioned that I had published an ebook. I noticed people light up like I had landed on the moon or something.

What is an ebook? An ebook is a publication that can downloaded onto a reading device like an Amazon Kindle, Barnes and Noble Nook, Apple I-pad, etc. An ebook does not exist in printed book form. It is a digital file. Because you are not creating a physical book, the cost of making an ebook is low.

Because you are just making a digital file, ebooks have become the latest do-it-yourself frontier. You can make your book available to readers around the world. If you have an interest, someone somewhere is probably writing about it.

How did I do it? I think I should tell you two things about me. First, I am not a go-getter self-producer type. I’m just a writer. Second, I am not super technical. I have a windows XP laptop which just keeps going and going. I like how the keys feel under my fingers.

Yet, I published an ebook. I wanted to just get the thing out there, and the response has been great. It seems to be reaching the people it needs to reach. In fact, I’m now planning a second book.

If you have always wanted to do an ebook, check out Smashwords. Also, Amazon is still the top seller of ebooks. Finally, here is a list of links for my ebook.

Thanks for reading. See you next time.

 

Tony Kushner

 

Tony Kushner recently depressed me.

The LA Times has an Awards Season supplement called The Envelope that comes out every Thursday. It has articles on films with awards season buzz and ads, lots of ads.

In December, Tony Kushner was interviewed in an article in The Envelope because he wrote the screenplay for Lincoln about the president, not the car.

In the interview, he states:

You can have a play, like I did with “Angels,” and it still generates income for me, but it’s not enough for me to live on and have health insurance.

My toast eating jaw dropped open when I read that.

This is Tony Kushner. Angels in America Tony Kushner. Love him or hate him, you can’t deny that he wrote the iconic American play of the 1990s. His plays are required reading and probably still very much in print with shiny nice covers.

If Tony Kushner can’t afford health insurance with just playwriting money, what does that say about the playwriting profession? What does that say about the affordability of health insurance in this country?

Don’t be a playwright in the US. It could kill you.

Is the United States trying to kill off its playwrights? Is there a conspiracy? Are there old men sitting in dark room, smoking cigars, and discussing the eradication of playwrights?  Should we playwrights pack up and move to a country that will give us a living? I’m not exactly sure which country that would be. We might have to invent one because, well, we’re playwrights.

When Playwrights Get Old

 

The great Kitty Felde recently worried in a blog posting about her age. How old is too old to be an emerging playwright (I’ve grown to loathe that phrase by the way)? When does one stop being the hot young thing?

Because I live in Los Angeles, I too have faced the age thing, but I can’t let it bother me. By the way, at forty-one, I am a young member of the Actors Studio West Playwrights and Directors Lab. I also have a few lines and wrinkles, but I earned those and never plan to give them up.

Besides, great plays can be written at any age. This statement led me to wonder how old the playwrights were when some of these great plays were written. To wikipedia I went!

So Kitty, before you put yourself out to pasture at the ripe old age of cough-cough-cough, please indulge in a few facts about some classics.

It is believed that William Shakespeare was forty-six when he wrote The Tempest. Now, sure, he had written a lot of plays before that one, and he had his own theatre, and he had the patronage of the Queen, but still he lived in a time before indoor plumbing.

Henrik Ibsen was sixty-two when Hedda Gabler was produced. Then, two years later, came The Master Builder.

Anton Chekhov died at age forty-four, so, well, moving on.

Samuel Beckett was forty-two when he was writing Waiting for Godot.

Moving over to America (where nobody gets old). . .

Eugene O’Neill wrote A Long Day’s Journey Into Night at the age of fifty-three.

Arthur Miller was thirty-three when he started Death of A Salesman. He was writing plays well into this eighties.

Finally, let’s end it with a woman, Maria Irene Fornes’s play, Letters from Cuba, which is the only play that ever made me cry with joy, was produced when the playwright was seventy. Fornes is still alive on this planet, and that’s good.

Minimalism

 

This morning, I was very excited to read in the New York Times that half of the movies at Sundance were directed by women this year. Half. Yay! Now, yes, it’s Sundance and not mainstream American cinema, but lately I’ve become a big fan of just taking a minute and saying yay! Yay! Okay moving on.

Today I want to talk about minimalism and what it means to me.

According to my old Webster’s dictionary, minimalism has two definitions. First, minimalism is an action of a minimal or conservative kind. Second, minimalism is a movement in art, dance, music, etc., beginning in the 1960s in which only the simplest design, structure, forms etc are used often repetitiously, and the artist’s individuality is minimized.

Minimalism has been around for awhile, so I’m not inventing anything new. When I think about minimalism in theatre, I think about no or simple set, few props, simple costumes. Basically, I see minimalism as theatre without the fluff. As someone who grew up watching Opera and those big Broadway musicals, I now am interested in just taking it down to the essentials.

I have many motivations for turning to minimalism. First, it’s cheap to produce, and I am tired of tracking down props for readings and workshops. Yes, I know it shouldn’t be my responsibility as playwright, but it is my responsibility as playwright. Second, when working with very little on the page, I force myself to find clarity. I don’t have any illusions to hide behind. Third, aesthetically, I’ve always liked clean lines in painting and architecture. Even though the play can have its messes, the simplicity of actors on a stage focuses my attention. Finally, it’s hard. I always seem to do things the hard way. I am finding that writing things minimally requires a lot discipline and intellectual rigor. Because the actors have nothing on stage with them, I gotta give them something to play.

Why did I start doing minimalism? Lately, I’ve been writing a lot of short plays for evenings of short plays. As an audience member, I have found that such evenings lose their momentum when furniture has to be carried on and off. Transitions are just as important as the tiny dramatic events that take place. However, if the short play has no furniture, it can start right after the last one.

After writing some shorts, I decided to write minimally in longer pieces. I have found that the writing process has become much more interesting. Because I am not weighed down by stuff, I can fly on the page. I like that.

So that’s just a brief summary of how I’ve been writing during the last few months. If you want to try your hand at minimalism, take a scene you wrote which you consider a failure and take everything out of it. Take it down to the actors speaking the words. Now, you are halfway there. Next, think visually and physically. Using physically, how can you visually show the point you are trying to make? What is the point you are trying to make? How can you show a scene that might take two pages in a half a page? How can you balance an elephant on the tip of a pin? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

 

The Gathering

 

This blog is not about the latest ad campaign from the Irish Tourism Board.

Hello LAFPI, I’m back blogging. This is my 13th week blogging for LAFPI, and thirteen is a good number for me. No, not superstitious at all. Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Also Happy Inauguration Day.

Back on January 12th, I went to the LAFPI gathering at Samuel French in West Hollywood, and it made me all perky and happy. Maybe it was the abundance of sweets on the food table. Maybe it was all the books. I like to think it was all the great people I met. We all got to introduce ourselves. Some of us read work, but the whole proceeding had a nice casual feel to it. I also got to meet the Bitch Pack, and they’re really nice. They’re not Bitches at all. Also, the Vagrancy Theatre was there too, and it’s okay, they do have homes.

Ideas were exchanged along with cards (gotta get some of those) and fliers. What’s cool is that so many writers from so many places can come together and drink wine and eat brownies and exchange ideas. Meanwhile, on one of the bookshelves, Judi Dench looked out from the paperback cover of her memoir and smiled.

Special thanks to Jennie Webb and Laura Shamas, Bitch Pack’s Thuc Nguyen and LA FPI/The Vagrancy’s Sabina Ptasznik for organizing the gathering (or could we call it a salon, does that sound too pretentious?).

There is talk of another gathering in March for Swan (Support Women Artists Now, not the bird) Day or maybe in April for the third anniversary of LAFPI.

As for me, my plan is to blog everyday Monday through Friday this week, so check back for more fun stuff. I plan to talk about my latest conspiracy theory, minimalism, actors, and other wacky playwriting stuff.

Leaving LA

Recently, a writer friend and I started talking about LA. Do we really need to be in LA? We asked each other and ourselves.

The beauty of being a writer is that you can write anywhere and you don’t have dress to go to work. You just need a place that inspires you. So what do you do when LA is no longer inspiring? What do you do when the bright sunshine is too bright and the lack of rain is a little obnoxious? What do you do when sitting in traffic is no longer amusing?

Is there a point when you should leave LA? Someone once said that you should leave New York before you get too hard and you should leave LA before you get too soft. I don’t consider myself a bathroom towel, but is there some truth to that?

Really, what is here? No matter how much we try to build it up, it is a theatrical hinderland. Sure, there’s probably the largest pool of actors in the world here, but how many can really do stage acting? Sure, as a dramatic writer, you can work in film and TV. Nice work if you can get it.

Yes, there are theatres and writer groups. There are odd spaces with strange parking and plastic cups of cheap white wine. There are little cliques of self-congratulation and tiny bubbles of hot air.

Folks don’t come to LA to do theatre. Folks come to LA to surf and get famous. I’m not famous and I don’t surf. What the heck am I doing here? What else is out there?

Talkbacks

I recently saw Samuel Beckett’s great short play Krapp’s Last Tape with John Hurt at the Kirk Douglas Theatre. It was a production from the Gate Theatre in Dublin. Hurt was so precise that his performance could balance on the tip of a pin. He respected the silence and made the audience respect it too. This production didn’t reach out to the audience. It brought the audience into it. It was my kind of theatre.

But enough about the production. I want to talk about the Talkback. Beckett might not reach out to his audience, but the Center Theatre Group certainly does.

As soon as my ticket was scanned, I realized I had entered a way too happy carnival. In the lobby, you could record and listen to your own audio recordings. There were tables and chairs and a wall of Irish writers in an area called Sam’s Pub. It was ghastly.

Still, I felt celebratory about seeing a Beckett play. I settled into the lobby with a plastic cup of champagne and noticed a flat screen with a twitter feed on it. I fought the urge to not to read the changing screen containing absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, I heard a theatre guy all in black announcing to some older patrons that there will be a Talkback in the lobby after the performance.

It’s only fifty-five minutes, and it’s so absurd, so you can talk about it in the lobby after the show. The bar will be open.

I listened as he said it again and again as he went from group to group. The part about the bar being opened intrigued me.

So the play happened. I won’t go into the superlatives. After a quick trip to the ladies room (champagne, glorious champagne) and a hand wash in the Ladies trough (if you’ve been to the Ladies Room of the Kirk Douglas, you know what I mean), I was back in the lobby just in time for the beginning of the Talkback.

It was moderated by a twenty-something theatre girl all in black who obviously had been given a list of talking points. Whenever there was a silence she added a new point. My favorite was when she pointed out that John Hurt looked like an older Beckett. Uh-huh.

I left. I had to go. As I walked away, I went to my negative place. Oh God, what horror, what awful terrible horror. The Talkback.

When did theatre become a democracy? When did it become okay for the audience to discuss their feelings? This is Beckett, not therapy. Just because you have an opinion, madam, doesn’t mean you have express it. Is there any place these days without a comment field?

I don’t care how my plays make you feel. Okay, I do a little. I like it when folks laugh and clap and give me money. I don’t want to hear how my play relates to your life. That’s between you and the play. When the play’s over, clap and leave. Thank you, good night.

Sometimes Deadlines Are Helpful

 

I’ve always taken pride in being a disciplined writer who doesn’t need deadlines to get the work done. I usually have several plays in various stages on my desktop. If I end up hating one, that’s okay. There’s one or two others coming up behind it.

This year, the deadline for the O’Neill National Playwrights Conference was October 26th. On October 1st, as I was going over the submission requirements, I decided to not send the play I had finished. I still had problems with it.

Okay, so I could send a different play. However, there was one small catch. The play wasn’t done. I didn’t have a full draft.

Just a minor detail. No need to panic.

What did I have in my undone play? I had the characters. I had the visual world. I knew the tone of it. I didn’t have the ending, but I knew where I was going. I had been working on it for two years, so I had spent some time on it. I realized that I knew more than I thought I knew about it. I just had to get it to draft.

I sat down and finished the play. Every day, I worked on it and worked on it. The first ten pages took two years to write. The last ten pages took two days. I got it to the O’Neill five days early.

Having that deadline turned out to be beneficial. If there had been no deadline, the play would still be incomplete. Sometimes deadlines are helpful.