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.
In the early nineties, I began my quest to look at my heritage and find more pieces of what makes me who I am. I imagined that any journey toward that knowledge would be good for my little box of things to write. One day while home from my day job, a man stepped out from between two cars in front of me. I had to swerve to miss him. Later that night in my apartment, I had a visitation from the man in the street. Not his physical self but his spirit or so it seemed. I write about things of the spirit a lot in my work…it just shows up – like he did. I have been trying to put the vision I had that night in a play but am not sure when, where or how to enter as I really do not want a literal interpretation of that experience. I want to capture how I felt in those moments… Over the years, I’ve tried different things but can never quite get that, “this is it” feeling. Two years ago, I wrote this poem:
the Medicine Man
he stepped out from between the cars
with his staff
magnificent, authentic, ancient, familiar
he was tall like my uncle huron
with chiseled facial features
in headdress/ high moccasins/ native attire/ regal/ warrior-like
the feathers hanging from the staff caught my eye first
they were real
and i wondered if they were eagle
then i noticed that he was looking directly at me as i approached
our eyes locked for an instant/ for an eternity
my car seemed to be driving through a time warp
as i slowly passed him there in the street
looking through me to some place
we must have met before
in the rearview mirror
he turned his entire body to watch me drive away
i could not watch the road for watching him
he was a shaman/a medicine man, i knew
but why was he looking at me
did he know me/ daughter to native ancestors
i should have stopped/asked
later that night as i lay on the floor in prayer
i could hear and feel footsteps vibrating on the floor
moving toward me
a hologram in moccasins was all that i could see
his…
he placed one foot on the back of my head and pushed me into a vision
of the past
afraid/ unable to resist/ unable to move from the floor from the smoke
what is that?
i could hear the rattlers and sounds of war
the screaming women and children
i could smell the smoke and see its fog
then it lifted just enough for me to see
i was there dressed in buckskin
lying face down in the rubble
watching the boy as he searched through it for
his family
i was there
he knew me, daughter to native ancestors…
he knew me…
As a writer, do you ever wonder just how long a story can germinate before you can write it? Have you ever come up against any story that just doesn’t seem to have an “in”? What do you do? One of the greatest things about theatre is that the playwright doesn’t have to limit their approach to conventional ways in order to write their story. Stuff just needs to be pulled out of the box, lived with for a while and looked at it from several angles…
“Don’t lose your footing. Find your place of strength. Take time to identify those things that anchor your soul.” — Dr. Cindy Trimm
Often life goes full speed ahead – with or without you. You can be so wrapped up in keeping up you don’t take the time to renew yourself. Then, before you know it, out of the seemingly blue, you hit a wall and find yourself dazed and confused about how you got there. You know you have gotten off track… You know you aren’t yourself. You know you’ve been missing you for a while. You know that wall really didn’t just show up out of nowhere, you felt it coming but just didn’t stop yourself from walking into it. You told yourself to “fake it till you make it;” which worked for a while – till the residue from the build-up of not taking a rest became so thick visibility was lost…
Now you’re at that wall, face in or butt down, and you’ve got to pull yourself back together again, got to find your place of strength… You’re so far away from yourself, your normal avenues to renew and press just haven’t been working (to be honest, you haven’t been using them, hence the residue build-up). What do you do? How do you get your feet back on solid ground and get back to you? How do you find a place of strength that will help you right here, right now?
I have a favorite passage of scripture, from Jeremiah that was ringing in my head as I found myself getting up off the ground recently:
16 Thus says the Lord: “Stand in the ways and see, And ask for the old paths, where the good way is, And walk in it; Then you will find rest for your souls. But they said, ‘We will not listen.’
Jeremiah 6:16 New King James Version (NKJV)
This verse – taken completely out of the context of the story in Jeremiah but completely in context for me because I was not paying attention to how far away I was getting from my stress releasing regiments – helped me get back to me. I had been ignoring my own warning flags – my failsafe anchors that keep me from losing my footing. I wasn’t taking time to read things that feed my soul, that recharge me and encourage me. I wasn’t getting out in nature to simply enjoy the air and growing things or checking on/hooking up with family and friends…all the things that seem like nothing special but are…
A place of strength is where you go to find renewal, redemption, and hope… It is a right now place…
The first thing I did to get back to there was pray. Not my regular prayers I had been praying everyday for myself but the “can we talk” prayer where I pulled out by backstory, looked at the character traits, and examined the plot. Repented. Where did I veer from the natural flow of things? Where did I lose my footing? Examined myself with unabridged honesty. Truth does set you free; it allows you to reset your pace and rewrite… It allows you to get back to you no matter how far away you think you have gotten…
My place of strength is staying connected to me, to God, and to my backstory that informs the plot points in my life – plot points that can change if needed…
There are long nights of writing and longer nights of thinking about writing. All seem to run together as I work out story bits, running plot lines in my head, listening to dialogue, visiting the people who live first in my mind then on the page. A lot of time is spent working through a preliminary story, till it flows just right … If I could add up the hours spent before my computer, wonder how many times I could cross the earth with it. It gets old – the constant push – but the time spent doing my craft is so much a part of me, too much time away from it makes me disoriented. Funny, I can imagine myself day-job-less but I can never imagine myself not writing…
Time well spent is my daily goal; no matter the discomfort, it’s worth all the long nights needed to create that next perfect line…
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.
I totally understood her pain. She was going through the Buts. Yes, I have the buts too. I might be writing away and kicking ass on a new play, but. . .but. . .but. I might have sat through a really successful production of a short play I wrote, but. . .but. . .but.
The Buts have caused me to start smoking (which creates real butts, hahahaha), drink too much, and curl up into a little ball with my eyes tightly closed and my fists clenched.
How do you fight the Buts? I do not recommend smoking, drinking too much, or curling up into a little ball. I fight the Buts by doing yoga (skipping the little ball part), sailing, and just plain getting on with it.
Sometimes, you just gotta get on with it and say, okay, what next? Actually, that might be a good phrase to counter punch the Buts. What next? Also what can I do now?
And Tiffany, don’t worry about them full length plays. According to Wikipedia, Chekhov wrote less than ten full length plays. Less than ten. Okay, so he was a prolific short story writer. Okay, so five of those plays are considered classics. Okay, so he was also a doctor. Okay, so he died young. Still, he did the work. Remember it’s quality not quantity. Insert inspirational quote here.
It’s your time now. What are you going to do with it?
All this week, I’m priming myself for the plunge into a new play. I’ve tried bribes and writers toys, given myself a soundtrack and some writing space. Now what?
Perhaps the best road map to success (which to me means typing “lights fade to black…”) is to see what my peers are writing. What can I learn from them? What can I steal?
Having read and seen a LOT of new work lately, it seems I can divide the new play world into some very broad categories:
– Familiar stories in a world we’ve never seen before
Steven Drukman’s The Prince of Atlantis is a pretty straightforward story about finding your father and brothers growing up. But it’s set in an Italian American suburb of Boston in the cut throat world of the fish market. Yussef El Guindi’s Pilgrims Musa and Sheri in the New World
is a simple boy meets girl, boy loses girl story. But the world is that of recent Muslim immigrants in America.
I could take a familiar story, a familiar plot, but the play would become new and interesting when I take my audience to a world they’ve never visited before.
– reach for the classics
Everybody’s getting in on the updated translation act. Michael Hollinger tackled Cyrano. David Ives took on The Liar. For heavens’ sake, even Moises Kaufman is taking on The Heiress!
Why don’t I find my favorite classic and reinvent it for a modern audience?
– you gotta have a gimic
Or not. But there’s sure a lot of them out there. Christopher Shinn’s Dying City has the lead actor playing his twin brother. Natsu Onoda Power’s Astro Boy and the God of Comics had actors drawing cartoons right before your eyes. James Still’s I Love to Eat had food writer James Beard making canapes for selected members of the audience.
Is there something unusually theatrical that I can incorporate into my play?
That’s a start. But now I’d welcome your list of “must have” items for the modern dramatist. What’s getting produced? Why? What do you want to see?
My grandmother used to tell me stories…before she began to forget. I stored them somewhere in my subconscious. I remember them at the oddest of times, in the middle of dreams, while writing other things. When I was 26, I joined the army. The days before I left, I would bury my head in her breasts – like I did when I was a baby – to soak her up. I knew that was the last time I would see her alive and I needed to keep a piece… She’s in a lot of my plays in some way and when I am really tired, I slip into her southern way of speaking. Nora Lee Phillips Morris…could sing a whole church happy…right in the middle of the blues…
Being a storyteller means remembering and sharing even when you got the blues…
The Södra Teatern is theater complex in Stockholm, Sweden is located at the top of a steep cobblestoned street (“steep” as in the Santa Monica Pier ramp), overlooking waterways, carrying boats of all kinds. Six small theaters are spread up and down this scenic hill, connected by dozens of iron stairs. There, all nearly three hundred of us scampered or in my case, limped from readings to workshops, dashing back to the huge, old main theatre, and its red plush seats.
OKAY. I’M STOPPING RIGHT HERE.
It was my intention to fill this blog with keen and incisive impressions of the many workshops and keynote events I attended at the Women Playwrights International Conference, in Stockholm, Sweden last month. Seriously. I had my trusty steno pad, Bic AND Sharpie pens with me at all times. The one thing I forgot was how the Universe gets a hearty chuckle at all of my good intentions. As usual, the Universe had an agenda all its own.
The message: see what comes along, listen, take notes and tell these stories to as many people as possible.
HOW WE LOOK TO OTHERS
One day, I missed a keynote speech when a young playwright from Serbia took me aside. It seemed so urgent to her — this woman with eyes downcast and in a quiet voice to speak of her country of origin. She feared that I and the other Americans attending would be mad at her for atrocities “put upon Muslims.” I doubted if she was old enough to have been alive during that terrible time. Still, here was this beautiful, young, talented person, taking the guilt of a whole country onto her little shoulders. Once she saw that she wasn’t about to automatically be condemned, we created a great conversation in our new international language – that of the female dramatist. My advice to her – put it all into your next play.
HOW WE LOOK TO OTHERS AND DON’T KNOW WHY
A few days later, I gave up my spot on a workshop waiting list in order to sit on a bench in the square outside the main theatre, doing an impromptu reading of my Eileen Heckart Award winning play, HAPPY AND GAY, with the wonderful Swedish actress, Ulla-Britt Norrman. She was a brilliant ‘Betty’ to my so-so ‘Veronica.’ I looked up from the script to see a small crowd had gathered around us. We even got a bit of applause. In retrospect, maybe I should have passed a hat. Afterwards, I had to explain why ‘Veronica’ was so worried about the ramifications of the first gay wedding in their church. Ulla wanted to know why there was much “gay fear” in America. The more I tried to explain gay rights in America, a realization crept into my consciousness. What’s the big deal about America’s gay rights? I have no clue.
A WALK IN THE STONE GARDEN/ROLLING HEAD SCARVES INTO TURBANS
My new friend, the beloved Lia Gladstone, made an unexpected appearance at the Columbus Hotell (yes, two “l’s), where I was staying. She had just gotten in from a long flight and needed a good walk and talk before the arrival of her charges, the young women who would perform their “Afghan Voices” presentation later in the week. Lia knew from the moment they arrived from Afghanistan, she would have to constantly be there for them, giving multiple interviews with the press and shepherd her charges to the various public events.
Since this might be her one rare, peaceful moment before the impending media storm, I suggested we take a stroll through the Katarina Churchyard, located behind the Columbus Hotell. We walked and sat on benches, listening to the church bells dutifully toll every fifteen minutes. As a family of rabbits, the graveyard’s unofficial grounds keepers, nibbled on the grave side flowers Lia and I quietly chatted about everything from our lives, writing and eventually to her work teaching drama to young girl orphans in Kabul. Lia moved me to tears as she described giving one little girl a head scarf to play with for an improv exercise. The child rolled the scarf up, making it into a turban, the symbol of masculine power in Afghanistan. Lia said she looked out over the rest of the class, watching all of the other little girls empower themselves by rolling up their head scarfs into turbans and wearing them.
CATCHING POLITICAL LIGHTNING
With my Steno pad, Bic and Sharpie in hand, I was bound and determined to take the iron stairs from the main theatre down to KGB West in order to find the director of “Isaac, I am,” my play to be presented the next day. Once again, the cosmic chuckle materialized into a downpour outside. About a hundred of us were caught in the lobby, awaiting the rain’s end when Van Badham, a fresh, fierce playwright from Australia, climbed up a couple of stairs and called for our attention. She announced the conviction of members from the Pussy Riot punk group, who had broken into a church and recorded a protest song about Putin in Russia.
Leaning on her cane (“I have a bum ankle,” she told me later), Van’s strong, clear voice delivered her message, electrifying the room. She announced an impromptu march from the theater to downtown Stockholm. The place went wild! With Van’s permission, I recorded her repeating the announcement on my little camera as she stood on the stage of the big red-plush-seated theatre. Lightning struck again! A few moments later, I sat with Van, as she gave a quiet, focused statement. She was illuminated only by a single window, which gradually brightened with the passing of the storm.
See below– these are short. Feel free to share these links.
Van’s announcement on stage:
Van’s quiet, focused statement:
I shared these links with Hettie Lynn Hurtes at KPCC/National Public Radio in Los Angeles. She passed them on to her colleagues.
MISSING THE GUERRILLA GIRLS FOR A DANCING AFGHAN VOICE
You gotta hand it to the organizers of the WPIC. Besides hosting 275 playwrights from dozens of countries, they fed us, provided those who had play presentations with excellent directors and actors, who gave our work respectful and often brilliant treatment. The cast in my Helford Prize winning “Isaac, I am” was so enthused, they honored me with requests for full copies of the play so they could find out how it ended.
Yes. The organizers did a wonderful job. The only problem? There was too much ‘wonderful.’ It was physically impossible to see absolutely everything. On Saturday night, August 18, I had to choose between attending two performances in different venues at virtually the same time; Afghan Voices or the Gueerilla Girls. Hoping to catch up with the Guerrilla Girls back in the states, I chose to support Lia Gladstone and her Afghan performers.
We were mesmerized as one young woman made the stage her own with a self-choreographed hip-hop dance, while rapping her own lyrics. While I wish I could have translated her words, in the end it didn’t matter. What transcended any language issues was her joyous defiance and courage in the face of possible dire consequences back home. Her spirit moves me to this moment.
I’m writing from this from home with the Democratic Convention livestreaming on my laptop beside me. My poor steno pad is within reach, its Bic and Sharpie waiting patiently nearby. Before the WPIC, my biggest concerns were working to get productions and hoping for good reviews.
Spending one extraordinary week with these women playwrights and performers who, every single day put it all on the line while expressing their art has given me a greater appreciation of the freedom we have always known, must protect and encourage in others.
One exciting theme I saw through my 45+ interviews for the Fringe was the question of form. How, where and why do we create our art? I selected this video interviews from artists who push their own boundaries and deserve a larger audience.
An absurb opera about cat memes? I initially was snobby about this and so didn’t try to see it. Boy, am I sorry. Not only is Ellen a fascinating mind with whom I want to grab a beer, but tons of people recommend it.
