I yearn to trod the boards. I yearn to be the poet theatrical. I yearn to drink whiskey with the troubadours and to wake among the players. It is in my blood, dear one. And, therefore, I yearn.
A friend of mine hosted a pool party yesterday. There was great food, good friends and wonderful conversation. Every time I'd cross paths with him, he kept saying, "Life is short. Life is short."
Indeed it is.
With headlines involving young lives needlessly taken by gunfire or 30-something celebrities found dead in their hotel room, it makes you stop and think.
It is so easy to say things like, "Don't hold back. Forgive like you have amnesia. Believe like a kid. Love like crazy. Be yourself." It is not quite as easy to put those maxims into practice. I don't really like the person that I've become in the last couple of months. I spend more time than I used to feeling sad, angry and resentful. I used to forgive easily, I used to believe dreams came true, I used to have the courage to love and be myself. I've always thought that with age, wisdom and a ticking clock would come the ability to do those things more freely. I guess I was wrong.
Life is short.
Cory Monteith died alone in his hotel room at 31 years old. His last post on Twitter was about Sharknado.
It made me think. Will the last thing I write be a blog post tinged with negativity and self-deprecation? Will my last Facebook post be a complaint about the heat and humidity? Will my last Instagram be a photo of what I had for lunch? Will my last tweet be about a really bad movie on the Syfy channel?
No. There is no better time to start telling my story than now. It is time to stop holding back, to start forgiving like I have amnesia, to believe like a kid, to love like crazy and to be myself. To become the woman of substance I know I can be.
I think one of the most important assets a writer can have is the ability to be as honest and as candid as possible when they are putting their words into an indelible format. The foundation of great writing lies in the ability to choose the right words and apply them to an imaginative and compelling story that is told with candor. Trust me when I say, that is not a foundation that is easily poured.
My first real accomplishment as a writer was when I wrote a novel about my senior year of high school. I spent night upon night banging away at the IBM Selectric writing what I thought would be the definitive coming-of-age novel. Truth be told, with the passage of 25 years, I know it was fluff. It was more of a therapy session than a story that was of interest to anyone other than myself. Structurally, it was a mess. I remember giving it to my father, a writer and former English professor, and asking him for his feedback. When he gave it back to me, with red ink splattered throughout, it was discouraging. However, I learned valuable lessons from that experience: the importance of the rewrite and the requirement for a sock drawer.
While I can barely remember the details of the story, I do recall one thought that was constantly running through my brain while I was writing it: "What will so-and-so think about that when they read it?"
I still find myself asking that question whenever I am writing. I suppose that is because, with more than four decades behind me, I have more stories based on the experiences I've had and the people I've had them with. I am sure the fact that I've actually had people tell me that I shouldn't write about a particular topic or feeling has also made me a little gun shy. There are times when I even tell myself that I can't write about a particular experience until so-and-so is dead. Then I wonder, did Hemingway censor himself in this manner? Did Tennessee Williams? Or were they just too drunk to care?
It seems to me that a writer needs to be aware of their audience. The question is: how finite a definition of audience should be applied? The other question is: how does the constant awareness of that audience hinder honest writing and is my writing suffering as a result?
There is a specific example that comes to mind for me. One of the stories that I am working on involves a young child, based on someone very close to me, who is questioning their sexuality at a very young age and how they navigate that journey in a world that is progressing yet is still challenged by conservative views and policies. Knowing that I am writer, this child has even asked me to write this story. In a way, I've been given the green light to take the filter off and be completely honest. However, I am reminded of a blog that a mother wrote about her six-year-old son and his crush on Darren Criss. The blog went viral and resulted in her son stating he was gay at the tender young age of seven and subsequently meeting his "boyfriend." While the liberal, equality-for-all side of me cheers this mom on for her open support of her son, I can't help but think about what his life will be like ten years from now. Most likely, he will be a happy, healthy gay man. Clearly, he has awesome parents and a great support system and I applaud that. Hell, I give it a standing ovation. But what if it doesn't work out? What if he becomes that kid whose mom wrote a widely read blog about something that, ultimately, his information to share? What happens then? Will his mother's honesty end up being her downfall? Is there such a thing as too much candor? It's a tough call...
So these are the things that I think about when I am writing. I'm still working on picking at the scab and letting the blood of honesty flow. Because, truth be told, I think I need to do that to make my writing really, really good. I want to say what I want to say and let the words fall out. I wanna see me be brave.
I remember the first time I saw Les Miserables. I would say it was around 1986. I had procured the OLCR on CD and had the score (and every lyric) burned in my brain. The music was so lush and the story, simultaneously heartbreaking and hopeful, so powerful. The moment the first notes of the Overture played, I started to cry. I was so overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment that tears just filled my eyes. Twenty years later, I experienced the same exact thing when I took my then-five-year-old daughter to see Beauty and the Beast. When the lights went down and the magic began, I cried. I cried because I was exposing my daughter to the world of theatre that I had spent my entire life loving.
I'm afraid, however, that somewhere along the way the magic has been misplaced. Or, perhaps, displaced.
Don't get me wrong, I still love theatre. My lifelong tether to the performing arts is one that will never be cut. But something is missing. There is no spark. The indescribable surge of emotion that I once felt is gone.
I suspect that the power of the setback has had more of an effect than I had given it credit for.
For example, in the last year, I've gained at least 20 pounds. I attribute this weight gain to several things: my lack of activity, my love of food and my affinity for a good dirty martini or three. In the last six months, as my emotions began to spiral out of control, I would find solace in sitting at my computer watching seasons of Six Feet Under or Dexter, eating a good meal and drinking away the pain. However, when I stepped on the scale six weeks ago and saw that my weight had surpassed the 170 pound mark, I knew something had to change. So I joined Weight Watchers. I've been humming along pretty well, adhering to the plan pretty closely, a daunting task when you consider how deprived I was feeling without my prosciutto, cheese and adult beverages. I was losing an average of 2 pounds a week, which is right on target with healthy weight loss. Then, two weeks ago, I gained .2 pounds, went on vacation and strayed even more from the plan, only to gain another .2 pounds. Minor setbacks, yes. But setbacks nonetheless.
This is where I make a choice. Do I give in? Do I accept defeat? Or do I stare the scale directly in its digital damnation and say, "Ha! I'll show you!"
In some respects, adopting a healthy lifestyle is comparatively easier than finding creative inspiration. You set goals, you apply disciplined measures and you see results. When there are setbacks, it is pretty easy to pinpoint where you went wrong and to make the appropriate adjustments. However, when you've put yourself out there creatively and taken a couple hits in the gut, it is not as easy to get out of your corner and come out fighting. Sometimes you need to sit one out and take the time to nurse the wounds.
I think about this all the time. Maybe the key to unlocking the barrier can be found in the realization that there shouldn't be any fighting when it comes to creating art. While my instinct is to come back stronger, leaner and meaner and to prove the naysayers wrong, I'm not sure that is where I want my writing to come from. I so desperately want to rediscover the moment that makes my heart burst and my eyes swell with tears. The moment when I feel the need to tell a story deep within me. The moment when I can once again say, "I've got the magic in me."
Until then, I will tend the vessel and prepare it for the return of inspiration, in its purest and most magical form. And I know, in my heart of hearts, it will be well worth the wait.
I'm not gonna lie. 2013, creatively speaking, has been a crappy year. Things that I had hoped to see come to fruition didn't. Dreams that I thought were being realized were dashed. I even took a deviation from the familiar path and auditioned for a local production, only to be flat-out turned down. Yeah, 2013, you have really kicked my ego in the gut and left me down for the count.
Fortunately, I have a lot of friends whose true colors came through in times of strife - for better and for worse. I am blessed to know a lot of folks "in the business" who have supported me and offered professional advice when times were tough. As a result, I gave myself a time out. I find that I tend to take to the blog when I am frustrated, angry, disappointed and defeated. From the creative perspective, that was mostly how I was feeling, so that is why I haven't posted of late.
As you know from previous posts, I have a rewrite to do. I also have a new piece that I am developing with composer/lyricist Sam Sultan. Lest we forget the many new projects germinating in my brain. So what do I do with all those creative tasks on my list? I go on a diet and I start working on neglected home improvement projects. At least those are projects that are definitely within my control. I can invest time, money and energy and, when all is done, I can see the results. There is something very tangible and necessary about having those kinds of goals, especially for me. The theatre is a nasty business and it devours the weak. I needed to make myself stronger somehow.
We are about to begin the second half of 2013 and I am hoping that it is infinitely better than the first half. I am looking forward to both an acting and directing gig in the fall (details forthcoming) and will be spending the remainder of the summer getting thin, organizing my home and writing the first draft of a new musical.
Sometimes you have to deviate from a path in order to find a hidden treasure, to dodge a bullet, to find a rose among thorns or, quite simply, to right your course. And that, my friends, is a good thing.
Much to the chagrin of some, I have made no secret that the last seven days have been extremely difficult ones for me. Instead of excitedly preparing for and seeing the premiere of my new play, I watched it crash and burn, along with some pretty significant and longstanding relationships.
I have spent a lot of time reflecting on the events of the past week and what is involved when working on a developmental piece. Now that the smoke has started to clear and I have moved beyond my initial disappointment, I would be remiss if I didn't point a few things out. This is not a post about full disclosure or pointing fingers, so I won't share all of the sordid details. However, it is important that I share a few of them.
In fairness to the theater and to the cast, when we started this process the script was not complete. It was nowhere near it. We began rehearsals with a couple of scenes and then, over the next few weeks, I would provide a scene here and there. We did not have a full script until three weeks before our scheduled opening, which we had to push back. Even after finishing the script, I was tweaking and rewriting. I cannot imagine how frustrating that must have been for the actors. I know how difficult it was for me as a writer to complete the script, I am sure it was just as hard for the actors who were anticipating pages, only to repeatedly come up empty handed.
I have also learned the importance of open communication and testing understanding. These are tactics I use in my office environment all the time but not as often as I should in my theatrical endeavors. The words "in development" can be interpreted differently by different people. I should have been more forthcoming with the theater and the cast about what I perceive "in development" to mean. I think we could have avoided a lot of confusion and tension if we had been more up front about the expectations we had of one another.
I am, without doubt, a flawed person. One of my biggest flaws is my inability to say "no," which often results in me over-committing myself. In this instance, that character flaw ended up working against me as I tried to juggle work, family and volunteering while attempting to write, direct and oversee the production of a new play. Promises were made and were not kept because, through nobody's fault but my own, the hours and the energy were in short supply.
Over the past week, in writing about my personal feelings and sharing my disappointment, I have egregiously neglected to share a very important point. The cast and the crew that were involved in this production gave everything they had, despite the constant challenges they were faced with. They were very committed to their roles, to the piece and to the theater. Without their efforts, I would not have been able to create the characters that now live on the pages of this script. Whatever the next step, I will be forever grateful for their talents and contributions.
This chapter of my life was a difficult one to write. I have made every attempt to be as honest and forthcoming as I can be. I hope that the people who care can see that. I am a firm believer that there are two sides to every story and then there is what really happened. I have learned some very hard lessons and I hope that the knowledge I've gained will prevent me from making the same mistakes down the road. With this blog, I am not attempting to garner a sympathy following or trying to make excuses, I am only chronicling this journey because it is an important one for me.
Mea culpa. I'm sorry. Time to write the next chapter.
The scant four decades I have have been on this Earth have wrought many stories. I am a storyteller who has spent three of those decades in the theatre - that's 75% of my life. Therefore, it makes sense that I am a writer who is compelled to bring my stories to the stage.
If you are reading this post it is likely because you are a friend of mine. This blog is fresh enough that it hasn't garnered much of a following outside of social media. In a way, that is a good thing. This post is for my friends and family, my colleagues and the people who know me.
Tonight was meant to be the world premiere production of my new play A Gift of Undetermined Value. However, due to creative differences, the theater made the decision to cancel the production. I won't go much more into it. Differences are differences and everything happens for a reason.
I am still relatively new to this. I am no Beth Henley (see how I chose a female Pulitzer Prize winner there?) but I am a playwright. And I am a fairly decent one at that. I have proof positive on that declaration. Google it.
This particular story was inspired by a high school friend's relationship with a man who murdered his wife and three children. My friend was a New York Times reporter. While he was in the process of being fired from his job at the Times for blending several stories into one, a murderer, Christian Longo, was assuming his identity and living the high life in Mexico. The result was a bizarre and fascinating relationship that resulted in a book and a movie deal. The basis of my play, however, was the the next chapter of the Christian's life which explores the bio-ethical issues of organ donation by death row inmates inspired by his organization GAVE.
My play takes the bio-ethical issues of organ donation by prison inmates and intermingles those issues with the dynamic interpersonal relationships of family, marriage and friendships in the aftermath of a tragic situation. The story is still good and I am proud of it. It has a future. I am confident.
I am sad that this snowy March night in Connecticut will not see the premiere of my play. But I am happy that I am able to make the rewrites I felt it needed. When it finally does move forward, it will be with confident steps and with the support it deserves.
These words can make a writer quake in his (or her) boots. I've learned, though, that no word is more frightening to a writer than the word "frozen." We are four days away from presenting the first workshop production of A Gift of Undetermined Valueand, without doubt, we are 99.7% frozen, save a word change here and there. Understandably, the actors in this production requested a frozen script about two weeks ago.
It is times like this that I wish I had the luxury afforded writers working on a new piece opening Off-Broadway or (wishfully thinking) on Broadway. Even writers working on a work-in-progress at the O'Neill Theater Center have this luxury: the ability to rewrite up to the night (or afternoon) before a show opens.
As I sit in rehearsal and watch talented actors make my words sound better than I believe them to be, I feel like the man in the photo above. Frozen, bound and yearning for warmer temperatures. I know that I can change a word, a couple of lines or a scene and make it so much better. Yet I am bound by being frozen. What a horrible feeling.
I know I am not alone. Many creative artists of note have obviously struggled with this. My favorite Stephen Sondheim show Merrily We Roll Alonghas been rewritten and reproduced more times than I care to count. Stephen Schwartz rewrote the end of Pippin, one of my favorite shows. And let's talk about the Costco scene that was written out of the Pulitzer Prize-winning musical Next to Normal.
Our show opens on Thursday and what will be presented is the script that has spent most of its time sitting in the freezer for two weeks. But rest assured, I have been taking copious notes and have spent many hours rewriting scenes and characters for the next chapter, which is planned for June 2013.
When the script and my hands thaw from the frostbite, this play will be on fire!
